


Stay Here

by maniacalmole



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, can be platonic or romantic your choice, however you want to interpret it and what happens after, it's essentially about two people realizing how much they like being around each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-14 14:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maniacalmole/pseuds/maniacalmole
Summary: Aziraphale gives up his shop for a good cause, but that means he needs somewhere to temporarily stay. And there's really only one person he could ask to store his most treasured possessions. Temporarily, of course.This was partly inspired by my college roommates, whom I miss. Living with other people has its ups and downs.





	1. Just Because You're an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own these characters. I don’t own headcanons about the South Downs. I definitely don’t own the first few paragraphs, which come straight from the book. I wish I could claim credit for the dramatic 'And they never came back' in italics, but I can only claim credit for what comes after :)

  _Occasionally, serious men in dark suits would come calling and suggest, very politely, that perhaps he'd like to sell the shop itself so that it could be turned into the kind of retail outlet more suited to the area. Sometimes they'd offer cash, in large rolls of grubby fifty-pound notes. Or, sometimes, while they were talking, other men in dark glasses would wander around the shop shaking their heads and saying how inflammable paper was, and what a fire trap he had here._

_And Aziraphale would nod and smile and say that he'd think about it. And then they'd go away._ And they'd never come back.

_Just because you're an angel doesn't mean you have to be a fool._

 

                But….

                Just because you’re an angel does mean that there are certain things you have to do.

                Like care. Or act as though you care. Preferably both at once. Aziraphale, like most people, was usually pretty good at mustering up the energy to do one or the other.

                So, when Mr. Banks arrived, and Aziraphale was not in the slightest interested in whatever it was he wanted, he nevertheless invited him into the back room for a cup of tea. It was the polite thing to do.

                The ever-smiling man in the very professional-looking suit with a small, probably unnecessary briefcase looked a lot like one of the two particular types of visitor Mr. Fell’s bookshop frequently received. He was clearly not selling or buying books. He was, then, one of the types who came around every now and then asking about the location. Aziraphale was definitely not interested.

                “Now, what was it you were asking me?” he asked anyway, handing the man a cup.

                Mr. Banks took it gratefully. “Ah, yes. I simply wished to inquire, Mr. Fell, as to whether or not you were happy with the state of your business here?”

                Aziraphale regarded him from behind his reading glasses for a moment. He gave a thin smile. “Oh yes. Very happy.”

                “Really?” Mr. Banks stared at him with wide-eyed, affectedly pleased surprise. “I’m glad to hear it. I am very glad, indeed, that literacy seems to be of interest in this area.”

                “Oh, yes. This area has shown plenty of interest in books.*”

*Aziraphale’s interest in books, alone, was more than that usually held by an entire street’s worth of people, and he did, in fact, live in the area.

                “Good, good!” Mr. Banks scooted forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the table, still grinning. Aziraphale smiled back. He was used to this sort of manipulation by businesspersons, their enthusiastic body language which attempted to persuade him that they were both on the same side, that they should both be enthused. Mr. Banks beamed. “You are, clearly, Mr. Fell, a man who values literacy. If that is the case, then I believe I have a very exciting business proposal for you. Whatever you may say, I know that business around this area can be difficult. I don’t mean to be rude—“ He held up his hands. “That’s just fact. Clearly, your aim in having this lovely bookshop here is more about propagating the wonderful habit of reading, rather than making a heavy profit.”

                “That’s correct,” Aziraphale said. “I’m not particularly interested in making money, you see. So if you’re here to make a bid for my shop, and you think I might be tempted by large monetary offers—“

                “Oh no, Mr. Fell. Quite the opposite.”

                Aziraphale blinked. “Your offer is to help me lose money?”

                “No, no.” Mr. Banks chuckled. “Well. Not exactly. We want to make your shop into a library.”

                Aziraphale froze. He then very carefully placed his cup of tea back on the table.

                “Not with all of your own books, of course!” Mr. Banks said quickly. “We’re not asking you to give away those!”

                Aziraphale nearly put a hand to his heart, but the last time he had done that, Crowley had laughed at him for a solid minute.

                “No, Mr. Fell. We are simply asking you to consider letting us use this location—the current location of your shop—for a library. Seeing as it’s not particularly suited for more lucrative pursuits, but, as you have said yourself, there is an interest in literacy in the area, which we would very much like to support.”

                And then, Aziraphale’s strategies failed.

                Because he was used to doing the right thing because it was what he was supposed to do, as long as it was not too inconvenient. And he was used to supporting a good cause in his heart, but not interfering with human affairs when doing so would conflict too much with their own free will. But when a good cause appeared, one that he could not help caring about, and when ‘the right thing to do’ was so clearly stamped upon something…

                “I think,” Aziraphale said, “I am going to have to make some more tea.”

 

                Of course, Aziraphale didn’t really want to move. There was the matter of transporting all of his books, and he had no idea where he would move them to. And he was a creature of habit, in a way. He had been in Soho for quite a while. Even the dust in his little shop was familiar to him. He might miss the place, the customers, even the owner of the questionable shop next door. But Mr. Banks was relentless.

                “But it’s so small,” Aziraphale pointed out, a bit desperately.

                “We’ll have a system,” Mr. Banks said. “People can submit a request for certain books if we don’t have them. They’ll be shipped in.”

                “Oh.” Aziraphale took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his brow. “I see.”

                “It really is a magnificent idea, Mr. Fell. It would give more access to books to people who live nearby. To their children. I can see from your expansive collection of children’s books that you care about the children, Mr. Fell.”

                Aziraphale, for once, did not feel like pointing out that they were first editions, and that was why he valued them. He did, of course, care about children. Who didn’t? But still….

                “Think of it as our way of benefitting humanity. Pray, think, Mr. Fell—“

                Aziraphale blinked.

                “Think of what it will do for the children. For literacy!”

                Aziraphale quadruple checked that Mr. Banks was not, in fact, an agent of Heaven or Hell.*

*There was no magic here, just a man who was very good at his job of reading people. He would have been surprised, himself, to know just how well he had read Mr. Fell.

                “That would be—quite nice.”

                Mr. Banks beamed at him. Aziraphale gave half a smile. He could feel his resistance giving way. His resistance to….charity….

                “Oh, all right,” he said.

                Mr. Banks grinned and sat back in his chair. Aziraphale gave one more sigh.

                And then there was the matter of the customers. When you owned a shop, people were always trying to buy your books, right out from under your nose.

                Yes, perhaps this would be best, after all.

 

                Normally, a person might look for a new place to live before selling their old one. It was hard finding a place to house that many books, though, and Aziraphale wasn’t one for slowing down good works. Mr. Banks said they were eager to start on the library right away, and the building did need a considerable amount of renovation. Aziraphale hired the best moving company he could find, and, after a few hours of helpful tips on how to properly move artefacts and antique books, he considered the movers prepared, and he was all moved out.

                The moving company then asked him where he would like to be moved _in_.

                “Ah,” said the angel.

                He was sure things would all work out. He just needed a place to store his belongings—and himself—temporarily.

                Aziraphale had been on Earth for a very long time. He had made many friends. In fact, he had probably made more very good friends than most people did in their lifetimes.

                It just so happened that he had made all of them over the span of six millennia. He averaged about one or two per century that he would consider close enough to ask for favors. This century was, admittedly, looking a bit slim. Many of his lifelong friends had, well, lived their lives, and none could quite live long enough to be lifelong from _Aziraphale’s_ perspective.

                All except for one.

                There was really only one place to go.

 

                Aziraphale showed up on Crowley’s doorstep earlier in the morning than Crowley usually liked to be awake. He recognized the angel by the khaki pants and his appalling shoe choice. The rest of him, from the waist up, was hidden behind a stack of books.

                “Erm,” said the books. “Hello.”

                Crowley removed two volumes to make way for Aziraphale’s face. He looked like a child who had shown up at home holding a litter of kittens, begging his parents, ‘Can we keep them?’

                Crowley raised an eyebrow.

                “I have a bit of a favor to ask.”

                Crowley leaned to the side, peering around him, and saw the moving truck.

                “Ah,” he said.

 

                A few hours later, they had moved everything in. Crowley stood in the middle of his flat in a daze while Aziraphale finished paying the movers. By ‘moved in’ they really meant that the books were all inside the flat, but they were in no way organized. They lay on every surface, and were stacked meters high by every wall and in every corner. It seemed all Aziraphale owned was books. He had a few pieces of furniture, but they were all in storage. His books, however, he needed somewhere safer, somewhere he could keep an eye on them. Apparently he trusted Crowley with them, as well. Personally, he was afraid to move, in case he accidentally touched something.

                Aziraphale backed into the flat with one more stack of books in his arms, which, after looking around for a bit, he placed on the ground next to the door, the only unoccupied space. He closed the door and wiped his hands together, then gave Crowley a nervous grin.

                “Well,” he said. “That’s the last of them.”

                “Good. Good,” Crowley said vaguely.

                “Thank you so much, again, for doing this.”

                “It’s no problem,” Crowley said, waving a hand through the air. His eyes widened when he saw that he had nearly clipped a stack of books.

                “No really, I mean it.” Aziraphale was scanning the pile of books next to him, possibly seeing which ones were there. Crowley wondered if he was going to catalogue them all. “I know it can’t be convenient for you,” Aziraphale went on. “Which is why I’ll go out straight away and start looking for a place.”

                “There’s no hurry.” Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from touching anything. He looked around, shuffling his feet to move himself in a circle. He almost fell over. He shuffled back to face the angel. “Erm. But, perhaps. Yes. Perhaps you ought to start looking.”

                “Quite so,” Aziraphale said, eying the plant next to him dubiously. It had been moved to make room, and was balancing precariously atop a book stack. One of the leaves kept tickling the angel’s face. “Yes. I’ll be going, then. Goodbye.”

                He left, and the door slammed behind him. He was always more heavy-handed when he wasn’t dealing with books or antiques directly. Crowley saw what was about to happen. He yanked his hands out of his pockets, and raced over to the books by the door as the plant wobbled. He grabbed the pot, just before it tipped completely and fell, which would have caused the pot to shatter, spilling dirt everywhere, and—

                “This,” Crowley murmured, “is going to be a long—“

                He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

 

                Aziraphale did not return until after it was dark. His knock on the door startled Crowley, and he desperately attempted to make up something to say if the angel asked what he had been doing all day, so that he would not have to admit that he had been sitting silently in dismay since he had left. He opened the door.

                “Any luck?” he asked, since he had still not thought of anything, and wanted to start the conversation off in a different direction.

                “I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said. He seemed guilty, and would not look Crowley in the eye—although that was always a bit difficult, given that he was almost always wearing shades. “The places I found today were all too small….” He looked up suddenly. “I _did_ try.”

                “Right, well.” Crowley scratched the back of his head. “It’s always, er, hard. Finding good, erm. Real estate.” When he had been trying to acquire his own flat, there had been several other interested parties who had all been willing to place rather high bids. Fortunately, they had all suddenly decided that city life was not for them and backed out at the last minute.*

*It was strange. Ms. Patil had known that cities had bad traffic, but she had ended up sitting in a five-hour gridlock every time she tried to look at the place. Mr. Cooper had come to the city specifically to get away from the countryside, but every time he had visited the flat, the television had been showing nature documentaries that had made him miss his old country home. It was as though the flat itself had been suggesting that they look elsewhere.

                “Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Well, I just thought I’d pop round to let you know. I’ll be on my way—“

                “Oh,” Crowley said, surprised, then, “oh,” realizing what the alternative would be, and sounding a bit relieved. Then he added, this time sounding confused, “You’re leaving?”

                “I don’t want to be a burden,” Aziraphale said. “Erm. More than I already am….”

                “But you—?”

                “I have a few places I can go,” Aziraphale assured him. “Just not places where I could entrust my entire book collection. Erm, you see.”

                “Right.”

                “So, I suppose I’ll be—“

                “Oh, wait.” Crowley walked to a small table near the door. He pushed aside some of the books there—Aziraphale trying to hide an involuntary sharp intake of breath when he did so—and grabbed his keys. “You ought to have a copy,” he said, walking back to the angel. “In case you need to get one of your books, or something, and I’m not here.”

                “Oh, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude, or—“

                “Trust me, this is better than you breaking down my door because you need to make sure you didn’t somehow forget to pack your second-oldest edition of the King James.”

                Aziraphale would have protested that he would never break down any door, but he was too busy fighting the urge to check that he _hadn’t_ forgotten his second-oldest edition of the King James.

                Crowley held the key to his flat in one hand. He held out his other hand and squeezed it tightly into a fist. When he opened it, he was holding a copy to the key.

                “There are people whose livelihoods depend on doing exactly that with proper machinery, you know.”

                “And you can make a charitable donation to one of them the next time you’re around one,” Crowley said. He held out the key, and after a moments’ hesitation, Aziraphale took it.

                Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

                “No problem,” Crowley said, for what felt like the twelfth time that day. He snorted.

                “What is it?”

                “Nothing. It’s just—usually you’re not that bad at getting rid of people.”

                “What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, affronted.

                “The people who come round trying to buy your place, I mean. No matter how conniving those businesspeople are, you’ve always managed to send them away. Until this time.” Crowley put on a sly grin. “I can’t believe you were so easily tempted.”

                “He had some very convincing points,” Aziraphale said, frowning at the increasingly smug-looking demon. “They’re making it into a _library_ , Crowley. That’s humanitarian. You can’t argue with that, dear boy.”

                “Yes, that’s exactly how they do it,” Crowley said with a nonchalant shrug. “They convince you that _you_ want it as much as they do.”

                “But he didn’t trick me into anything,” Aziraphale cried. “I really do want what he was trying to sell.”

                “Sure, sure.”

                Aziraphale gave him an exasperated look. “Crowley, this is just silly. If I actually want what he’s trying to give me, what’s the point in ‘resisting temptation’?” He said the last words with a mocking hint of melodrama.

                Crowley looked at him thoughtfully. “Hmm,” was all he said. Then, he shrugged again. “Well, anyway, humanitarian cause or not, I’m still impressed by anyone who can get you to move.”

                “Mr. Banks was a very reasonable man,” Aziraphale said simply. He placed the key Crowley had given him carefully in his pocket. “Well. I’d better be off. I’ll be out looking around first thing tomorrow.”

                “All right,” Crowley said. “Goodnight, then.”

                “Goodnight.”

                Aziraphale left, accidentally slamming the door behind him once again. Crowley automatically reached out and steadied the precarious plant. He let out a short breath.

                Crowley was ready to go right to bed. At least that was one room that where he wouldn’t be suffocated in paper. Unless—

                The demon’s eyes widened. He set off at a run. He reached his bedroom door and opened it—but, no. No books here. Aziraphale had not made it this far. The angel would have been appalled; a bedroom without any books! Crowley shut the door to the volumes behind him—he could practically hear them whispering to him, menacingly—and sank onto his bed in relief. His only books were in the other room, probably quivering in the presence of so many other, bigger, older volumes.

                Aziraphale had asked where his bookshelves were when he had first arrived that morning. His use of the plural had given Crowley an ominous feeling, but he had shown him anyway. His one bookshelf was black. It consisted of bars that made up the bare minimum of what a bookshelf could be, and was such a strange shape that only a handful of books could fit if you squashed them right in the middle of it. Aziraphale had stood there, biting his lip, and, Crowley feared, trying not to either scream, or cry. Crowley hadn’t been able to tell which.

                _Well, I couldn’t have owned enough shelves for all your lot, anyway,_ he thought. _Even if I’d had the bloody walls lined with them._

                He dropped himself onto the bed, and tried to go to sleep.


	2. Stay Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooo....this chapter has the same name as the fic itself...!

                Aziraphale spent the next few weeks looking at flats. Crowley was gradually getting used to having his home overtaken by someone else’s belongings, and had gone through the stages of doing-someone-a-favor grief.*

*These consisted of

  1. Denial (“I’m happy to do it!”)
  2. Self-doubt (“Maybe this is more than I should have taken on…”)
  3. Resentment (“It’s not my fault if I mess this up, they should never have asked me to do it!”)
  4. Guilt (“I could have said no, I can’t complain when I said I’d do it…”)
  5. Fear (“I am absolutely going to ruin everything.”)
  6. Anger (“How could they put me in this position? I don’t care if I mess up anymore, they get what they get.”), and
  7. Acceptance (“Now that I’m less terrified of messing up and my hands aren’t shaking so bad, it’s much easier to hold my coffee, so it’s much less likely that I’ll spill it on Aziraphale’s books, and far less likely that I’ll end up a dead demon.”)



                Aziraphale stopped by every now and then. He had done so more often at first. He would make small talk and fiddle around with his belongings. Crowley had teased him for needing to check in on them, but then he started to think Aziraphale was checking in on _him_ , instead. He seemed to think he needed to show up to be polite. It was like he was reassuring either Crowley or the books themselves that he was not abandoning them. Crowley had eventually hinted that it was really not necessary.

                Aziraphale coming around every so often had done strange things to the passage of time. Whenever the angel first showed up, Crowley could have sworn he had just left an hour ago. It seemed like he was there all the time. Then, whenever he was gone, it felt like ages since Crowley had seen him last. Maybe it was because his stuff served as a constant reminder of his existence. Even after the Tadfield incident, when they had starting doing things together more frequently, it was still common for them not to see each other for more than a week. Now, Crowley was reminded of him everywhere he looked. He asked himself, ‘When was he here last?’ every time he had to move aside a collection of poetry or an anthology. It seemed like a lot longer ago when he had asked it ten times, even if those times had been over the span of only two days.

                The problem was, he was used to the answer being ‘A long time ago.’ Used to be, if something reminded him of Aziraphale, it was probably time to ring him up and see what the angel had been up to since they’d last spoken. That old instinct still kicked in. There wasn’t much point in calling him every two hours, though. Crowley hadn’t had time to get up to anything more than rotating the tires on the Bentley. That was the other thing about Aziraphale stopping by more often. Crowley had always thought of himself as a fairly interesting person, but with the angel slicing up his time into smaller blocks in which he could judge his own life more closely, he was starting to feel like an outright bore.

                Maybe he had started to slow down a bit since the world hadn’t ended. Maybe he was getting tired. He hated the thought. He was starting to suspect Aziraphale must be getting tired, too—otherwise there was no way he would let someone convince him to move out of a place he’d lived in since before they’d installed electrical lighting.

                Which was why Crowley had offered to help him look for a new place. Aziraphale hadn’t dropped by in a week, but the last time he’d seen him, Crowley could tell he was getting anxious about the whole ordeal. It was normal to take a while to find somewhere to live, but again, time was acting strangely. Plus, Aziraphale, unlike most humans, didn’t need to work, or sleep, or do anything, really, so he had been able to go through many more real estate listings per day than anyone else. According to his flustered phone-calls, there was always something wrong with them—no heat, no A/C, or too humid, moldy, and mildewy for his books. He had been having trouble with the real estate agents, who just didn’t seem to understand what he was looking for. Crowley had decided to go with him, not because he thought Aziraphale was being too picky*,

*A little bit because he thought that.

but because he thought he might be able to help him with the negotiating aspect of the thing.

                “You’ve just got to make it clear to them that you’re committed to doing the whole business the right way,” Crowley said to the angel as they got in the car and headed for their next appointment.

                “The ‘right way’?” Aziraphale asked, doubtfully.

                “Right,” Crowley said with a grin that did not make the angel any less nervous as the Bentley tore down the road.

 

                Unfortunately, the problem did not turn out to be Aziraphale’s lack of business skills, but the lack of habitable places available on Earth. After a long day of searching, Crowley had a new list of things to tell his superiors about—if they ever asked him for that sort of thing anymore. Hell would have loved some of the architecture he had seen today. Aside from that, there had been bad locations, strange smells, horrible neighbors, and an infestation of rats to conclude their adventure. Aziraphale sighed as he kicked a piece of plaster that had fallen to the floor of his last hope for the day.

                “I suppose the rats aren’t so bad,” he said.

                “Hm,” Crowley replied. “Don’t they eat paper?”

                “I mean, they’re not awful crea—oh.”

                “Perhaps not,” Crowley suggested.

                Aziraphale’s brow creased. He was staring around the room wistfully. “Maybe I could convince them not to come into my flat….”

                Crowley scoffed. “What, are you going to miracle yourself into the Pied Piper?”

                Aziraphale sighed again. Crowley patted his arm.

                “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

                They left the sorry excuse for a building and strolled down the street toward where Crowley had parked the Bentley. Crowley whistled while they walked. Aziraphale mused.

                “I suppose it has always been hard,” he said. “Finding shelter.”

                “’Finding shelter?’ You make it sound like you’re looking for a cave to hide in when it rains.”

                “We did live in caves, once. All of us.” Aziraphale squinted at the sky in thought. “I remember you living in various holes in the ground.”

                “That,” Crowley said, “was a very long time ago.”

                “Yes, it was indeed, wasn’t it? You’ve had some nicer abodes since then.”

                Crowley smiled nostalgically. “Remember my old place in Carthage? You could walk to the ocean. It was beautiful.”

                “I was in Alexandria then, wasn’t I? That wasn’t a bad place to live, either, if I do recall.”

                “The city was nice, but I don’t remember your house being very spectacular.”

                “No,” Aziraphale sighed. “It wasn’t my duty to live a life of luxury. I was to be a good example to others through simple living and works of charity.”

                “Like giving up your house to those in need, or, say, to make a library?”

                “Exactly.”

                “That manor of yours a few centuries ago wasn’t too shabby, though.”

                Aziraphale brightened up. “Now that was a home,” he said wistfully.

                “A tad luxurious though, wouldn’t you say?”

                “Er. The rules had become a bit more lax, by that point.” Aziraphale got a distant look in his eye. “The grounds were absolutely magnificent.”

                “And somehow, you managed to put to good use your position as subjugator of a hundred poor peasants by giving them a better life than they otherwise could have hoped for, under one of the many less generous lords. Which I suppose made it count as a sort of charity?”

                “And, if I recall, somehow,” Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley out of the corner of his eye, “you did exactly the same thing. Though, in your case, living in a manor counted as promoting greed and a system of inequality among humans, I would imagine?” Aziraphale smiled. “At least, that’s what you would have said you were doing.”

                The demon walked in silence, his expression hidden by his shades.

                Aziraphale said, “You always did find some excuse or another.”

                “Well….” Crowley smirked. “Being on the same side as Greed and Gluttony did have some advantages. At least I could live in style. Do you remember my place in Japan, a bit over a millennium ago?” He let out a low whistle. “That one was almost a palace.”

                Aziraphale frowned. “Actually, I don’t think I ever saw it.”

                “Really? I was there for decades.”

                “Er.” Aziraphale shrugged.

                “Oh. Right.” They had reached the Bentley. Crowley opened the door. “Erm…How about my place in Bengal in the 800s? I was there for a while.”

                “You were in Bengal?”

                Crowley made a face. They both got in the car.

                “Er,” Aziraphale said. He snapped his fingers. “I know! I do remember when we were both in Europe in the late fifteenth century. You had quite a nice place in Florence.”

                “Right!” Crowley leaned back in his seat, laughing. “With the Medicis! Ah, I miss them.” He made another face. “Er, well. Not really.”

                “I moved to Italy shortly after that,” Aziraphale said. “Then both of us were in France for a while, weren’t we? Spain at one point, and then—“

                “—and then England,” Crowley said.

                “Good old England,” Aziraphale said. “We’ve been some good places, haven’t we?”

                “Yeah,” Crowley said with a smile. “I guess we have.” He started up the Bentley. “Speaking of, where am I taking you, now?”

                “Oh.” Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, er. I forgot.” He started fumbling with the seat belt, then opened the car door.

                “What—?”

                “I’m sorry, it’s just habit—“

                Aziraphale had one leg out the door before Crowley grabbed his arm. “Angel, where are you going?”

                “You don’t need to take me anywhere,” Aziraphale said. “I’m not—that is, I only got in the car because we’ve been driving around to different flats all day. But now we’re done, I don’t really need you to drive me anywhere. I can just walk, it’s really—“

                “Where _are_ you going?” Crowley asked, realizing for the first time that he didn’t know. “You can’t have been looking at flats every night. So where have you been staying?”

                “Erm,” Aziraphale said. “Here and there.”

                Crowley narrowed his eyes at the suspiciously shifty angel. “No, really,” he said. “Where?”

                “I’ve been, erm. I was at a hotel for a while—“

                “A hotel?”

                “Not the whole time.”

                “You’ve been homeless for weeks.”

                “Yes, well, that was only for the first week. Since then I’ve been staying elsewhere.”

                “Yes, all right. Where?”

                “Oh,” Aziraphale said, twiddling his thumbs. “A friend’s.”

                “A human friend?”

                “I have a few, you know,” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows and looking away.

                “Yes, all right, Aziraphale. Where do they _live?_ ”

                “Erm. On the…mewrmer….” He said a word that sounded like ‘condiment’ and pretended to have noticed some dirt under his fingernails.* *A ridiculous thing for him to pretend, since that would _never_ happen. 

                Crowley lowered his shades and tried to stare him down.

                “What’s that?”

                “On the Continent.”

                Crowley’s shades dropped completely. “You’ve been flying to the bloody _Continent?_ ”

                “Erm. Only once or twice.” Aziraphale gave him a nervous shrug. “I stayed there a few days.”

                Crowley put his hand to his forehead. “Please tell me you at least used your wings?”

                Aziraphale’s grin faded.

                “You went to the _airport?_ ”

                “It’s perfectly _normal,_ ” Aziraphale sputtered, while Crowley melted into his seat in dismay. “People fly on planes all the time! They’re a marvelous human invention. I’m surprised you don’t enjoy them more, seeing as you—“

                “That’s not the point!”

                “—always going on about how brilliant human inventions are,” Aziraphale finished deliberately. He stared at him coolly, showing that he was not one to be ‘stared down’ at all. “What, then, is ‘the point’?”

                Crowley snorted. He started several different words without finishing them. He stuttered, “Well, it’s—it’s not—that’s just absurd—“

                “Look,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his temples. “I couldn’t very well intrude on anyone but one of my closer friends, could I? And time passes by so quickly, that I sometimes forget to make them. So as it turns out, I really only had one in Europe at the moment; at least, she was the only person I felt comfortable enough to ask if I could stay with her for a while. So, I flew over there, and I’ve only flown back and forth once or twice. I’ve looked at some flats over there, too—might as well start spreading out my search, since it hasn’t gone so well here, you know?—only none of them have really felt like _home_ ….I know I’ve invaded your entire flat, Crowley, and I’m sorry. I really am going to find a place to move to soon, I promise. I’ll be flying back over tomorrow, and I’ll look around a bit more, maybe somewhere in Switzerland—“

                “What,” Crowley said. He hadn’t been expecting himself to. He had assumed that he was currently speechless, and so he surprised himself a bit when he blurted out, “No. Stay here.”

                Aziraphale blinked.

                A bizarre kind of panic arose in the back of Crowley’s mind. Because you couldn’t just ask someone to fly to a different country to grab lunch. Well, you could, but…that was beside the point. “I mean,” he said. “Why don’t you just stay at my place for a while?”

                Aziraphale tilted his head and opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He looked at Crowley.

                “I don’t see why you should be flying all the way to the Continent,” Crowley said, laughing awkwardly. “Just to have somewhere to spend the night. There’s no reason to make such a big _deal_ over it.”

                “It hasn’t been that bad,” Aziraphale said slowly. “And I didn’t want to bother you, not more than I already must have—“

                “Aziraphale. No.” Crowley put his glasses back on. “This is inane. Just stay here. All your books are here, you might as well.”

                Aziraphale considered it. Crowley held out his arms and shrugged.

                “Why not?”

                Aziraphale let out his breath, then smiled. “Well, all right. If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

                “Sure!” Crowley said, louder than he had meant to. He started the car again.

                “I’m actually quite relieved,” the angel admitted. “I didn’t really want to leave England. It just made sense to look around in some other countries while I was there.”

                “Nah,” Crowley said, pulling the Bentley onto the road and heading for home.

                “It will be nice to be with all my books again.” Aziraphale sounded more at peace than he had in the past several weeks. Crowley smiled. He doubted it would last. There was bound to be something in his flat that would give the angel a heart attack, aside from his one bookcase.

                But at least he wouldn’t be flying to the _bloody_ Continent.

 

                They arrived back at Crowley’s flat. Crowley had to shove some books out of the way to get the door to open—he could have sworn they moved around whenever he wasn’t looking.*

*It was perhaps a habit they had picked up from their time in Aziraphale’s bookshop, where books had been constantly rearranged so as to discourage potential customers from ever finding anything.

                Aziraphale winced as he stepped over stacks of his most precious belongings as he entered the flat.

                “Well,” Crowley was saying. “Make yourself at home—“

                Aziraphale picked his way past another stack. They really were everywhere. This was why he had not asked Crowley if he could stay, earlier. He was already demanding so much. But—

                “Er,” Crowley said. “If you can find the room.” He pushed aside some encyclopedias that had taken over the sofa.

                Aziraphale winced even more. Perhaps it would be best if he were here to take care of them, after all.

                “Well,” Crowley said. “Erm.” He could not remember for the life of him what came next. Usually it was saying goodnight, wasn’t it? And then Aziraphale would leave. And then he would sit awkwardly in the sudden solitude for a minute or so. And then he would go to bed—“Ah,” Crowley said. “Crap.”

                “What is it?” cried Aziraphale, who had been trying to balance one stack of books on top of another to make room, which required a lot of focus, and who was feeling rather paranoid.

                “I don’t exactly have a guest bedroom,” Crowley said.

                “Oh.” Aziraphale wiped his brow in relief. “That’s all right.”

                “I mean I only have one bed.” Crowley tried to remember if he had any extra sheets. _Am I really making an angel of the Lord take the couch?_

                “Crowley, that’s fine.” Aziraphale laughed. “I don’t sleep.”

                “What. Ever?”

                “I do occasionally. But I’ll be perfectly all right skipping some nights while I’m here. Neither of us actually needs sleep, you know.”

                “I do,” Crowley said gravely.

                “Well, don’t worry.” Aziraphale laughed again. “I’m not going to try to take your bed.”

                “So, what? You’re just going to sit out here, awake all night, while I sleep?”

                “I don’t see why it’s any different than me sitting awake all night in my own house while you’ve slept in yours all these past years. It’s not as though we’ll be in the same room.”

                Crowley slowly moved himself backwards towards the hall. “Right,” he said. “You won’t be, I don’t know, bored?”

                “I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself,” Aziraphale said dryly. Crowley nodded.

                “Great. Goodnight, then.”

                “Goodnight.” Aziraphale watched, amused, while Crowley backed himself further down the hallway. He waited until he heard a distant door close. Then he turned to the nearest book, one balanced at eye-level on top of its brethren.

                “Right,” he said. “It has been too long.”

                He got to work.


	3. Antagonist Imagery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said. Having a roommate has its ups....and downs.

                For the first few days, Crowley spent most of his time ‘out’. This wasn't because he couldn’t stand being in the same room as Aziraphale all the time, yet*.

*It was partly because of this. They had gotten on well enough the first morning, until Aziraphale had seen the amount of sugar Crowley had put in his tea. He had been planning on keeping up the appearance of taking it as dark as his very soul, but he’d be damned again if he was going to keep drinking bitter leaf water the entire time the angel was there.

He also spent most of his days away from home because he didn’t want the angel to know that all he had planned for the week was a marathon of Golden Girls.

                So he had gone out, to the store, to several stores, in fact, but it turned out there wasn’t much he really needed to buy. He had gone out to the movies, but only ones he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t like. He’d gone to various places of ill-repute, claiming to have some business there, and Aziraphale fortunately had never asked him to elaborate. The truth was, his higher-ups had been leaving him pretty much alone since the Tadfield Incident, and he had never really enjoyed places of ill-repute, anyway. They were always trying too hard. It usually resulted in having too much grime on the walls, just for the aesthetic. The real mischief was always best worked in more open environments. He’d gone to a few parks, but it always felt odd leaving without Aziraphale, when he was right there every morning. He’d been to museums and theaters, but it was the same. He’d even gone to a football match. That had been the deciding moment for him. He was going to have to face his new housemate sooner or later.

                Besides, they were showing all three of the original Star Wars films today. There were only so many good opportunities he was willing to miss.

                Aziraphale nearly toppled over the stack of books he had spent all morning alphabetizing when Crowley opened the door. “Oh! You’re back early.”

                “Yeah.” Crowley walked over to the couch. “Business, er, finished up quickly.”

                “That’s nice.”

                “What have you been up to?”

                “Oh.” Aziraphale stood up quickly. “Just reorganizing some things—I haven’t heard back from any agents in a while. And there haven’t been any new listings yet. That’s why I haven’t been out looking. Erm, I’m sure some new ones will appear soon.”

                “Oh yeah,” Crowley said. “Sure. Hey, listen. D’you mind if I watch something? Would the noise bother you?”

                “No, that would be fine,” Aziraphale said, confused.

                Crowley dropped onto the sofa in relief. “Great. Thanks.”

                “It’s your house, dear boy.”

                Crowley did not know how to respond, so he only turned on the television wordlessly.

                Aziraphale tried to ignore it, but the sound was distracting. He looked over curiously, and asked, trying to sound as polite as possible, “What’s playing?”

                “Star Wars,” Crowley said, hesitantly.

                “Oh. I don’t believe I’ve seen that one.”

                Crowley took a deep breath. It was better than him saying that he had seen it, but hadn’t liked it, which he had feared. “You can join me, if you like,” he said, his voice overly cheerful.

                “That’s all right!” Aziraphale said, matching his tone. “I’ll just keep working on these—I’ve only gotten halfway through the ‘B’s—but I’ll listen if I can.”

                Crowley nodded and, somehow, settled back in his seat. The movie started, and as soon as the music began, washing over him with the highest quality surround-sound system he could find, he felt himself relax. If Han Solo could survive letting Luke and an overly worrisome droid share the Millennium Falcon, he could survive sharing his flat with a fussy angel and some extra paper.

                He let himself get lost in the plot. He almost forgot Aziraphale was there, until he heard his voice from behind him a while later.

                “So he’s a smuggler?”

                “Yes,” Crowley said, not turning around, but trying to see Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye.

                “But the government is evil.”

                “Pretty much, yeah.”

                “So then he’s a good guy.”

                The corners of Crowley’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

                A while later, he felt the couch pillow shift. He turned to see Aziraphale standing behind it, leaning his elbows on the back of the sofa.

                “Darth Vader works for the them.”

                “Yep.”

                “How can they not see that they must be on the wrong side?” Aziraphale said dubiously. “The antagonist imagery surrounding him is _obvious_.”

                “I guess it’s harder to see if you’re actually in the movie,” Crowley said, trying to hide a smirk.

                “Hmm.” Aziraphale picked at a few books that were sitting next to Crowley.

                A while after that, the angel was no longer pretending to be preoccupied with his task. He had his elbows resting on the back of the sofa and his chin resting in his hands. Crowley shot him a glance when he wasn’t looking—which was at any moment, since the angel’s eyes were glued to the screen.

                “You know,” Aziraphale said, “I think I _have_ heard this score performed before.”

                “Most likely,” Crowley said. “Do you want to sit down?”

                Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped away from the sofa. Crowley quickly turned back to the screen, keeping his focus straight ahead.

                A moment later, he felt a thump as Aziraphale plopped onto the couch next to him.

                “Probably a good thing, too,” Crowley said. “The next one’s starting immediately after this one finishes. You might as well get comfortable.”

                “There’s more than one?”

                Crowley sat back and grinned.

 

                Crowley found it both more and less irritating playing host to Aziraphale’s books when the angel was actually there with them. When Aziraphale was there during the day, he was always watching them. He’d actually scolded Crowley for getting too close once or twice. He moved them around constantly, either because he was reading them, or as a leftover habit from his bookshop. Before the angel had moved in, Crowley had gotten curious and looked through some of them. A few were actually fairly interesting. He was afraid Aziraphale would yell at him if he touched one now; or at least, scold in a higher-pitched, more frantic voice than usual. Plus, part of him would have been too embarrassed to betray his curiosity. If the angel didn’t flip out over him touching a book, he might instead try to encourage him to _read_ one. Crowley didn’t think he’d approve of his reading methods, which consisted mostly of skimming and looking for pictures.

                And, on the other hand…having Aziraphale there was…okay. It sort of balanced having his books around; at least he was there with them. It felt less awkward, anyway.

                That is, he did some things that weren’t so bad. He was always making tea. Literally always. The angel made more tea than even an inhuman being like Crowley could ever drink. It was more than Aziraphale could, too; half-full tea cups had joined the books and plants in their invasion of every square inch of space. Even if it was more than Crowley needed, the constant supply of tea was nice. It certainly made the place smell better.

 

                And, from Aziraphale’s perspective, temporarily staying with Crowley was not as bad as he had anticipated, either. Not that he had expected them to come to blows, or anything. But he had expected their lifestyles to clash a bit more. As it turned out, the demon was not constantly throwing wild parties with questionable ruffians that lasted all through the night. He hadn’t imagined him normally doing anything so extreme, exactly….but he had to admit he had been taken off guard by Crowley’s usual bedtime of eleven, or sometimes even ten-thirty.

                Of course, sometimes Crowley stayed up later, or all through the night. Immortal beings who don’t need sleep tended to do so occasionally. So did over-thinkers. Aziraphale had once seen Crowley finish a documentary on outer space, and switch off the television set, only to sit in the dark room for several hours afterward, staring at nothing. He’d tried to explain some of his train of thought when Aziraphale had asked, but he could tell he was having trouble doing so. He thought it best to leave him to it. He was glad, though, that Crowley had finally felt comfortable enough to do what he wanted in front of him. He had, of course, gone back to reading, quietly, so as not to disturb the pensive demon.

                He tried to be helpful, during his stay, too. At least, he tried to make his presence less of a bother. Whenever Crowley needed to move something to make space, or get to one of his cabinets, or open one of his doors, it was good that Aziraphale was there to help him transfer his books somewhere safe. He understood that it could be difficult keeping them all organized, so he was glad he could remain nearby to keep track of things.

                Unfortunately, they sometimes disagreed about some of organization’s basic principles.

                “Crowley!” Aziraphale shuffled around his Wordsworths, but the Austens were nowhere in sight. “Where is my Austen collection?”

                “I haven’t the faintest idea,” called back a smooth voice from the bedroom.

                “They were just here yesterday.” Aziraphale couldn’t help snapping sometimes. He didn’t want to be ungrateful—but really, anyone would be dismayed by the merry-go-round his belongings had been going through.

                Crowley appeared, wearing his sunglasses. He only wore them some of the time at home. It was strange how he did so even when no humans could possibly see him. Aziraphale was starting to think he used them to try to put on a cavalier attitude whenever he was asked any questions.

                “Where were they?”

                “Right here. I have them organized by time period.”

                “Right there by the window?”

                “Yes, by the window,” Aziraphale said, trying to force patience into his voice.

                “If they were by the _window_ ,” Crowley said, walking over, “I probably _moved_ them, because that’s where my _plants_ need to go.”

                Aziraphale noted his tone with a frown. “Pardon me,” he said through clenched teeth. “But it is difficult not to put things by any windows, since you have so bloody many of them.”

                “They need _light_ , Aziraphale.”

                Crowley and Aziraphale stared at each other. A tension as old as humanity itself boiled between them—not the tension of good versus evil, but of two people forced to share a living space. One of the plants behind Crowley wilted a little from the stress of it.

                “I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, still irritated, but relenting a bit. “I shall try to remember that in the future.”

                “Thank you.” The tension relaxed. Crowley gestured to the angel’s side. “I might have seen some Austen books in the pile I moved to make room for the cacti.”

                Aziraphale turned, and let out a strangled yelp. The books were under several not-quite-clean-enough pots of cactuses. He gathered himself, and plastered a smile onto his face.

                “Thank you,” he said, turning, but Crowley had already gone.


	4. Pardon My Language

                Things did not exactly get easier as time went on. Another couple of weeks passed. Aziraphale was still living as a guest. Crowley had once complained that his whole flat was starting to smell like books. Aziraphale had been flabbergasted, and a bit scandalized by the implication that that was a bad thing.

                “It’s not a bad smell,” Crowley had clarified. “It just smells _old_.”

                “You _are_ old.”

                The demon, at that remark, had taken off his glasses to use his full glaring powers on him.

                They were still discovering each other’s habits, some of which had gone unknown through millennia of them knowing each other. Crowley fidgeted a lot. Aziraphale was sure he had irritating quirks, too, though the demon never mentioned them. He just got snippy every now and then, never quite giving a reason, and Aziraphale assumed he must be doing something wrong. But he was certainly not going to change his behavior if Crowley was going to be passive aggressive about it. He was just going to have to understand that Aziraphale was ignoring him in order to make a point.

                They had some nice moments. Crowley had made pancakes once. He usually enjoyed Aziraphale’s tea, too, although the angel could hardly figure it out. He would suddenly act annoyed when offered a cup, completely out of the blue, even though he had seemed grateful enough for the five cups before—or at least for the first few.

                He didn’t see what right the serpent had to complain about any food or drink offered to him. The man made microwave meals. They didn’t even have to eat, and yet he occasionally ‘indulged’ in a frozen dinner. ‘You know, Famine had a hand in those,’ he’d said. ‘Call it helping an old workmate’ Crowley had replied, peeling off the plastic. Aziraphale had had to take a walk to recover from the sight.

                That was the main problem with it all. The only way to be alone was to leave. They could only walk around the city for so long before it seemed necessary to return to _somewhere_ , but Aziraphale didn’t feel he had a right to be anywhere. Even if Crowley insisted he was welcome, he had the suspicion that he sometimes took long drives in the Bentley just to get away, himself.

                There were times when one simply needed to be alone. One didn’t always want company. Sometimes, one needed to muse, or contemplate, or brood, in private. Especially after challenging days.

                Especially after hearing some very angering news.

                Especially today.

                “What the saints is the matter with you?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale walked through the door. The angel winced. He had been hoping that he’d hidden his mood.

                “Nothing,” he said, walking quickly past the sofa—but there was nowhere for him to go. “Why do you ask?”

                Crowley turned himself around in the sofa, looking back at him. “Because you look like you’ve just come from a book burning.”

                “Might as well have,” Aziraphale said under his breath. He hadn’t been wanting to tell Crowley this. He really hadn’t….

                “What was that?” Crowley hopped over the back of the sofa and walked over. Aziraphale grimaced.

                “It’s nothing, really—“

                “Come on. Spill.” Crowley stared at him with a blank glasses stare. Aziraphale could tell he was not going to get out of this. He took a deep breath, frustration bubbling inside him. Something about the demon’s last word worked like magic.

                “That bloody blithering bastard is turning my shop into touristy trinket-vending trash!” came his words all at once. He pulled himself together. “Pardon my language,” he said miserably.

                “Instead of a library?” Crowley asked.

                Aziraphale nodded. He waited for the ‘I-told-you-so’s. Crowley opened his mouth.

                “Those _fuckers_.”

                Aziraphale blinked. He gave a small smile.

                “I _knew_ it,” Crowley said loudly. “Didn’t I say they were tricking you? I told you!”

                _Ah. There it is._

                “You can never trust anyone,” Crowley went on. “Take it from me, angel. The world is full of liars and cheats. Never trust anyone to do a good deed without getting something in return.”

                “I’ve seen plenty of acts of pure charity in my time on Earth,” Aziraphale said touchily. “And this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. I’m angry enough as it is, and I don’t need another person telling me how rotten my luck is, thank you very much.”

                He walked away, into the kitchen, just because it was another room to go to. He put his hands on the counter and stared grumpily into the sink.

                He heard footsteps approach behind him.

                “I don’t understand,” said Crowley’s voice. “Didn’t you sign a contract?”

                “Of course I did.” Aziraphale’s fists tightened around the edge of the counter. “But I went over just to check, to see how things were going, and the construction team is already there, along with a big sign saying ‘ _Gems of London_ , Coming Soon!’ Pah. It’s the kind of place that sells overpriced goods from underpaid workers, and they don’t even have anything to do with London. I’ll bet he sells Eiffel Tower miniatures…And when I confronted him about it, he seemed convinced that nothing I said or did could have any effect on him whatsoever. He said that he was doing nothing wrong. Nothing illegal, he meant. I couldn’t touch him.” He sighed, relaxing his fists. “What do I know? I’ve read about businesses and how they work, legal procedures, and all that. But some humans just have a way of getting whatever they want.”

                Crowley walked over and leaned against the counter next to him. Aziraphale could not bear to look at his face. “Don’t I know it,” the demon said.

                Aziraphale sighed again. He supposed he probably did.

                “Could I look at the contract you signed?”

                “Why?”

                Crowley shrugged. “See if I can figure out what they’re playing at. See what’s written in there that they could turn around and use for their own profit. Loopholes, that sort of thing.”

                “There were no loopholes.”

                “There are always loopholes.”

                Aziraphale felt that a vital part of his being was being questioned. He finally turned to Crowley. “I read the contract many times,” he said. Crowley raised an eyebrow, which only infuriated him more. “I am an extremely thorough reader! I know what it said! There is no legal way for them to do this!”

                Crowley held up a hand, and Aziraphale realized that perhaps he was taking his anger out on the wrong person. The demon had mentioned many times that complicated contracts were creations of humans that impressed even Hell. Aziraphale forced himself to calm down. Crowley put on half a grin.

                “Trust me, angel. Business contracts with shady humans may be the one thing on Earth I can actually read better than you.”

 

                A while later, Aziraphale realized he had drunk all the tea. He hoped Crowley didn’t mind. The demon was still bent over the many pages of his contract with Mr. Banks. Aziraphale was about to ask if he should make another pot when Crowley sat up. He was smiling like a snake.

                “Got it,” he said.

                “How to stop them?”

                Crowley’s smile vanished. “Oh. Er, no. Sorry. Guess I got a bit carried away—I still find these things so impressive. The way they hide their ploys—“

                Aziraphale cleared his throat.

                “Anyway,” the demon went on. “I don’t know how to stop them, but I know why they’re allowed to do whatever they want. It says here, on page sixty-seven, in fine print at the bottom of one of the footnotes, that if you break the contract in any way you surrender control over what becomes of the building. Essentially, you’ve handed it over to them. So.” Crowley folded his arms. “How’d you break it?”

                “I didn’t,” Aziraphale said, incensed.

                “Listen—“

                “I did not. I did absolutely nothing! I have not broken the contract in any way!”

                “You did. They’ll have made it so that if you so much as look at the place wrong, you’ve somehow broken the contract.”

                Aziraphale sputtered for a bit. Then he deflated.

                “Look.” Crowley stood up. “I’m not saying it was your fault. The opposite, in fact. They just know how to do these things.”

                Aziraphale gazed around the flat at all his poor, displaced books. All of his furniture was in storage, his antiques locked away in the dark.…all for nothing.

                “So there’s nothing we can do?”

                Crowley tapped his fingers on the table. He looked like he was trying not to smile. “I didn’t say that.”

                “Nothing _legal?_ ” Aziraphale pressed, a warning tone in his voice.

                Crowley stopped tapping. The air of mischief and menace still hung about him a bit. The air of a demon who had been kept from messing about for a bit too long. “Technically, I didn’t say that either.” His voice was quiet, and, Aziraphale thought with relief, it sounded at least a tad disappointed. Maybe that meant he wouldn’t get up to too much. The last thing he needed was his friend getting himself in trouble by messing about when he wasn’t supposed to do so. The only way the situation could be worse was if Crowley ended up suffering for it, too.

                _Maybe I should tell him that_ , he thought. But it sounded odd, so he didn’t. “Anyway,” Aziraphale said, “what’s done is done. I suppose it’s best just to move on with things. At least they didn’t get their hands on any of _my_ books.”

                “If this Mr. Banks had had any idea how much some of them were worth, he would probably have tried to buy them off of you ‘for the library’, just to sell them again at a higher price.”

                “This is precisely the reason I never sell my books to strangers.”

                “Is that it?”

                “Thank you for your help. It’s good to know there’s no hope, at least. Well….it makes it easier, not wondering if there’s anything to be done, that is.”

                It didn’t, really. But Aziraphale had the feeling it would, eventually, when his initial indignation died down a bit. He was already feeling a little better. He even thought he might ask Crowley if there were any interesting documentaries on television. You’d think that he, an angel who had been around since the dawn of time, would know most of what there was to know about the nature of the world. Yet here Crowley had formed another habit that surprised him, and he was starting to understand it. They may know a lot about the world, but it was always fascinating to see what humans themselves made of it all.


	5. Evicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley tells Aziraphale to get out. Or go out. With him. You're just gonna have to read it to find out which.

                Crowley slept. He slumbered. He snoozed. There was a reason so many English words for sleep started with an ‘s’. Someone especially sibilant, who had been hanging around England briefly during the formation of its modern language, had found the need for more than one.

                There were different kinds of sleep, after all. There was the kind after a long day of hard work, where your body was tired and sleep was aided by the satisfaction that a lot got done. There was the kind where you had done nothing all day but lounge around, and so slipping into sleep was simply a matter of sinking farther back into your comfiest sofa. There were the deep slumbers, in which nothing could wake you, and the light dozes, where you were just asleep enough that the whole world seemed comfortable and soft, and you drifted in and out of consciousness without a worry in the world, your guard totally let down, because you knew you were safe and carefree….

                This was the kind of sleep Crowley had been having when he was jolted out of his carefree tranquility by Beethoven blasting as loudly as music at a rock concert. It shook its way through the walls of his flat. Crowley’s startled yelp was mercifully inaudible above it.

                He quickly changed into some clothes—there was no way he was going to be able to go back to sleep after the shock—and stomped into the living room.

                Aziraphale was standing in the middle of the darkened room, hands on his head, looking around wildly. Crowley cleared his throat. The angel did not hear him over the noise. He walked forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

                Aziraphale nearly elbowed him in the act of turning around.

                “Gah! Ah. Oh. Crowley. How do you turn it off?”

                “What are you doing?”

                “What?”

                “Waddaryoudoin?”

                “I said, _How do you turn it off?_ ”

                “WHAT?”

                Crowley could only see the angel’s petrified face. He sighed and walked over to the speakers, then turned them off. His ears rang. He turned back to Aziraphale.

                “ _What_ were you doing?”

                “I was just curious.” The angel was still yelling a bit. He coughed and tried to quiet himself down. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to turn on anything. I was just looking at it, and all of a sudden….”

                Crowley hit himself on the side of the head a few times, as though trying to dislodge water from his ears. “You must’ve knelt on the On button.”

                “Oh dear.” Aziraphale had a finger in his ear. “So sorry. Did I wake you?”

                Crowley, with mussed hair, no glasses, squinty eyes, his shirt untucked, and his slacks on backwards, at three in the morning, did not reply.

                “Erm,” Aziraphale said. “Sorry, again.”

                “Why were you messing around with my speakers, anyway?”

                “I wasn’t messing around. Merely looking. I was bored.”

                “I thought you said you were ‘perfectly capable of entertaining yourself’?” Crowley grumbled, “If you slept like a normal being this wouldn’t be a problem….”

                Aziraphale turned on a light. Crowley squinted even more.

                “Anyone would have trouble resisting the urge to look around a place he’d been staying at for more than a few weeks,” the angel said. “You were listening to Beethoven?”

                “Must’ve been.”

                “I thought you liked that other kind of music—that bebop kind of thing, like that one singer who always plays?”

                “That’s just—“ Crowley made a face. “Er—driving music. I listen to a lot of different genres. Listen, I’m going back to bed. Try to nose around through my personal belongings more quietly, okay?”

                Aziraphale bit his lip guiltily as the demon turned to walk away. He didn’t mention his unbuttoned trousers. “I saw you also had some Brahms. Would it help if I played a lullaby?”

                “ _Goodnight_ , Aziraphale.”

                The light switched off, probably a hint, the angel thought, and the door slammed behind him.

 

                After weeks of searching, Aziraphale had found a possible home at last. It wasn’t the best location, or the best building, or the best price, (although that mattered less to someone who’d had centuries to build up some savings), but it would do. Aziraphale was certain that he must have driven Crowley nearly mad by now, or at least he found it very likely. And Crowley found it very likely that Aziraphale wanted to get back to his own privacy even more than he wanted his own flat back, or at least he was sure the angel must want to give his books their own space. So, with both of them finding all sorts of things ‘very likely’, they both found it very likely that the new flat would be better than nothing.

                They tried to keep this frame of mind as they pulled up to the place on the day Aziraphale was supposed to sign for it.

                Crowley parked the Bentley with some misgivings about the parking space.

                “Er, this is it?”

                “Yes.” Aziraphale fiddled with his seat belt, but did not get out. “Er, this is the building, anyway. The empty flat is on the top floor.”

                “Ah.” Crowley poked his head out the Bentley’s window and craned his neck to look up at it. “Right. Nice, er—view, then?”

                “Oh, certainly,” Aziraphale said. “Erm. Well, it would be. If there were windows.”

                “There aren’t any windows?”

                “There are, sort of…on the other side, by the neighboring building…er, why don’t you come on up, and see?”

                Crowley had not been yet, and Aziraphale had almost not wanted him to come at all. But he had offered the angel a ride, and he had not wanted to be ungrateful.

                “Right. Here we go, then.”

                Crowley looked back at the Bentley as they walked away. The parking space was cramped, even with his usual extra help in making space, and the cars around it looked like they had been through some heavy hail storms—if hail was ever the size of bowling balls. There were some people lounging around the walls nearby, watching them. Crowley gave his Bentley one last glance, his eyes flashed, and there was a slight shimmer around the car. Crowley nodded, satisfied, and turned to catch up with Aziraphale.

                The angel was fiddling with the front door. He was having some trouble getting in. _That’s all right,_ Crowley said to himself. _Lots of places have little quirks. Besides, he likes old things. Says it gives them character._

                Aziraphale was thinking much the same thing when they finally did get inside. The lift wasn’t working. It hadn’t been the last few times he had come, either.

                “I could do with a bit of exercise,” he said, smiling through his huffs and puffs, as they took the stairs. “Even if it does take them a while to get it fixed.”

                Crowley opened his mouth, but did not respond. This was partly because he figured reminding the angel that he technically didn’t need exercise wasn’t really necessary, and partly because he was breathing heavily, himself.

                They reached the top floor, and, after more trouble with the key, Aziraphale eventually miracled open the door, and they stepped inside.

                Crowley was glad it had been millennia since he had entered new places with his tongue flicking out to smell the air. He gagged anyway.

                “What _is_ that?”

                “It’s only the building’s sewage system,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “The building _is_ a bit old-fashioned in that respect. But, the other residents say after a few years, you don’t even notice it.”

                “I thought you didn’t pick that other place because of the funky smell,” Crowley said, his voice pinched as he held his nose.

                “Yes, well,” Aziraphale replied quietly. “That was a different smell. And I—I can handle this one. After all, we smelled sewage for centuries before plumbing evolved.” Also, the other place had been weeks ago. Aziraphale had begun to lower his standards.

                But Crowley remembered those centuries, and he knew that this was, somehow, different. He let go of his nose to be polite, and was glad that his glasses concealed the fact that his eyes watered. “Um, so—“ He tried not to choke. “The agent will be here soon?”

                “Should be.”

                “Is there really room for all your books in here?”

                “Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, quite confidently.

                “With your furniture?”

                The angel did not reply. His furniture was safely in storage. As long as he had his books with him, that was what truly mattered. He only hoped the stench wouldn’t cling too badly to the pages….

                Crowley had wandered around the corner. There was a door there, which he tried to open. After moments of pushing against it with his shoulder, it cracked free of its frame and swung inward, leaving paint peelings on the side of his jacket. He dusted them off while he looked around. This was the room with the windows, then. They were rather small—and a bit high up on the wall—a bit prison-y, but they did let light in. It almost would have been better if they hadn’t. Then the room wouldn’t have been so full of vague shadows, ones that could have been dark spots, or stains on the walls and floor….

                Well, too much light was bad for antiques, the angel always said. Crowley walked toward the window and tried to peer out, but he was too short. He stood on his toes. The building across the way was beige. It was only almost the worst color.

                Aziraphale was checking the kitchen one last time. A means of making tea and cocoa, that was all he needed. He didn’t really need food, or an oven, and the smelly fridge he could replace, or do without altogether. It did seem like boiling water would be a possibility, so that was all good and well.

                He heard a noise from the main room, and went to find the real estate agent, who was holding the front door closed with a harried expression. She turned and grinned at him, but her eyes were too wide, and she still held the door handle behind her.

                “Boy,” she said. “That neighbor of yours across the hall sure is friendly, isn’t he?”

                “Oh yes,” Aziraphale said. “Erm. I’m sure those words he says are friendly ones—“

                “And very enthusiastic!” said the poor girl. “Does he, er, greet everyone so enthusiastically?”

                Aziraphale nodded.

                “How welcoming,” she said, her voice strained.

                “Yes,” Aziraphale said. “And loud.”

                “Not as loud—erm, enthusiastic—as his dogs, though.”

                “Dear pups,” Aziraphale agreed, trying not to wince.

                In the other room, Crowley had discovered the closet. There were no skeletons in it. This was a definite plus.

                The demon stared around at the walls. _His bed would have to be diagonal to fit in here_ , he thought. _Then again, the angel doesn’t really sleep. He’ll probably just use this room for storage. Which means he’ll spend most of his time in the other one. I suppose, from now on, that’s where he’ll spend his days reading. Or fixing old books’ bindings, or trying to remember the name of that woman he used to buy pastries from back in France, or the painter in Nanjing, only I won’t be there to help him. Yes, I suppose this is where he’ll spend most of his time, since he so rarely goes out. He doesn’t need to breathe, so he wouldn’t have to smell anything. And he gets so lost in his books anyway. I wouldn’t be there to interrupt him, so at least he’d have that peace of mind…._

                Crowley glanced around the room once more. Then he legged it out of there.

                Aziraphale was talking as pleasantly as he could with the agent in the main room. Crowley grabbed his arm as he passed him.

                “No,” was all the demon said as he dragged Aziraphale towards the door. “No, no.”

                “I’m sorry, what?” Aziraphale resisted a little, but only a little. “What is this, dear boy?”

                Crowley flicked his hand in the direction of the woman who was sputtering after them, and, after the air around her shimmered, she let them go without complaint. They made it halfway down the stairs before he stopped and turned to the angel. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m evicting you. Not from my place, from here. Before you move in.”

                Aziraphale was dazed. “Erm.”

                “You can’t—you don’t have to move in here.”

                “Oh, I know.” Aziraphale tried to keep his tone bright. “But, it’s not so bad, really—“

                “Would you move in here if you were _absolutely certain_ that I don’t mind you staying a while longer?”

                Aziraphale hesitated just a moment too long. Crowley nodded.

                “But—but I’m not absolutely certain. I mean, I know I must be annoying—look, anyone would be tired of me, Crowley, I understand, but—“

                “Don’t worry about it,” was all Crowley said as he pulled them both down the stairs.

                Aziraphale stopped them again once they had reached the bottom. “I find it very likely that you are still bothered by me being in your hair all the time,” he said seriously. He bit his lip. “But if you’re _sure_ —“

                “Completely sure,” Crowley said. “We’ve found ways to make it work up until now, haven’t we? We can make it work a little longer.”

                Aziraphale nodded. Then he smiled. It was a whole other thing from his fake smiles before. Relief shone through every line. “ _Thank_ you,” he said.

                Crowley nodded, and, without a word, they headed for the Bentley.

 

                The way they had been ‘making it work’ was this:

                Crowley had not really done anything. He hadn’t known what to do. But Aziraphale had built himself a little area, sort of like a workshop, in one corner of the living room. He had piled up his books to the ceiling and had walled himself off so that he didn’t have to hear whatever ridiculous television show Crowley was watching, and Crowley didn’t have to feel his eyes boring into the back of his skull. The angel did not have as much of a habit of staring off into space as Crowley did, but this meant that when he did faze out and stare somewhere, it was almost always at something or _someone_ , and it was with an odd intensity, even if he didn’t know it. If there was one thing Crowley hated, it was being watched.

                If there was another thing Crowley hated, and it was highly probable that there were more than a few, it was this. He would not have admitted this to anyone, but Aziraphale holing himself away did not make him feel better at all. Because most of the time, it did not make him forget the angel was there. He’d thought seeing him several days a week had done odd things to the passing of time. Him, being there, but not visible, not actually talking to him, was almost surreal. And then, sometimes, he did forget he was there. That, walking around his home feeling completely alone, and then realizing that the angel was there, hidden behind a wall of books, and had been the whole time...just silently existing, a few meters apart from each other, but acting as though they were in different worlds….

                Well, it made him feel weird.

                Whenever the angel did come out, they would talk, of course. But it was only for a little bit. Crowley never thought to ask him what he had been working on, anymore. And Aziraphale never asked him what he had been up to, either, because he already knew.

                It was strange how you could be closer to someone than ever before, yet not feel—as close, you know?

                That was what the back of his mind kept saying to him, over and over, no matter how hard he tried to drown it out. That it hadn’t been like this before. That before the Arrangement, sure, they hadn’t exactly been friends. That had been hundreds of years ago. Even back then, their conversations had been more interesting.

                What they needed, Crowley decided, was to go back the way they were before Aziraphale had moved in—without him actually moving out. Things had been all right then. They’d meet every week or two, go to a show or a restaurant, anywhere where they didn’t have to stare at the walls of their own flats. That had worked.

                “Angel,” Crowley asked through the wall of books one day after an hour of hesitation. His tone sounded perfectly nonchalant. “What are you doing tonight?”

                A few books in the middle of the stack were pulled out to make a window through which Aziraphale stared at the demon blankly. He had no idea why he would ask that. He had been doing the same thing every night since he had gotten here. “Er, the usual, I suppose.”

                “I think we should go out.” Crowley bent down to the level of the book window. “Er. How would you like to get dinner?”

                Aziraphale frowned and adjusted his glasses. “Go out?”

                “Erm. Yeah. Out, somewhere. You know, to do something. Um. Together.”

                “We’re sharing a living space,” Aziraphale said. “Why would we need to go out?”

                They stared at each other. Crowley adjusted his own glasses. Finally, he came up with, “It’s not the same.”

                “The same as what?”

                “Look,” the demon said. His back was starting to hurt. “It’s dinner, right? At the Ritz. Does that sound tempting enough for you?”

                Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “The Ritz,” he echoed. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

                “That’s my point.”

                “Well, all right. It’s a bit impromptu, but I suppose I could be ready in a few hours.”

                Crowley could not imagine what sort of preening the angel could do to get ‘ready’ for going out, when he always looked exactly the same, in his opinion. But he nodded and stood up, and the books were replaced into their slot.

 

                A few hours later, Crowley came back. _He_ had at least changed, though admittedly, he had only been wearing a t-shirt and trousers before. He knocked on the book wall.

                “Please don’t knock on the books,” came a muffled voice. Crowley rolled his eyes.

                Aziraphale emerged a few minutes later, and they headed for the restaurant. It felt good to be out and about. Crowley stretched his arms wide as they walked down the street. Aziraphale watched him fondly. The demon seemed more like himself today, less mopey and lethargic. Aziraphale smiled as Crowley chattered on, pointing out strange signs posted on walls or peoples’ interesting haircuts. Maybe it was the fact that there were more stimuli for conversation out here. Maybe Crowley had been right. This was a nice break from working on his books. He hadn’t even known he had needed one, but he realized now how much he had needed some air.

                Once they were seated in the restaurant, things became momentarily awkward. Neither of them could remember for the immortal life of him what it was they had used to talk about. Aziraphale almost asked Crowley if he had been anywhere interesting three times before realizing that the most interesting place either of them had been was the horrendous flats he had investigated.

                Aziraphale fiddled with his fork. He hoped the food would come soon. He hadn’t eaten anything other than biscuits with his tea in weeks. He didn’t feel hunger, he just wanted an excuse to stop trying to think of anything to say.

                “So,” Crowley said. Aziraphale looked up hopefully. “What’ve you been working on, in your corner?”

                “Oh,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve just been comparing various editions of old religious texts. By old, I mean, you know—“

                “Millennia?”

                “Yes. I’ve been looking at one story in particular that occurs in all of them. Translating…seeing what differences occur…er, I have a very organized system….” He trailed off.

                Crowley nodded.

                Aziraphale did too. He picked up his fork again, then forced himself to put it down. He clasped his hands together to keep from fiddling.

                A pit grew in his stomach as he realized that, again, that was all he had to say, and they still had not gotten their food.

                “Why?”

                “Why?” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with a creased brow. “There are a million reasons why.”

                Crowley waited. Aziraphale huffed.

                “Well,” the angel said, “it’s true that we don’t have to ‘find the correct answer’ since we can just ask the angels who were involved at the time what really happened. But the way humans interpret it, and misinterpret it, and have done so over the millennia, speaks to the multitude of cultures that have arisen—“

                Bloody brilliant demon. Aziraphale realized this while he prattled on. Crowley had sat back in his seat, looking satisfied, and Aziraphale kept on talking. Finally had something to say. Crowley always knew just what to ask. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it before, but the demon had always been doing that sort of thing.

                The rest of the night went well. Neither could have said what they had been talking about, but they must have talked about something, because before they knew it, it was late, and they were on their way home.

                They arrived at Crowley’s flat.

                “Well,” the demon said. “I’d invite you in, but—“

                “Right,” Aziraphale said. “It _is_ late.”

                Crowley stared at him. “We live in the same place, angel.”

                “Oh.”

                The two went inside. They stood in the darkened living room, farther apart than normal, with the sofa between them. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

                “Er,” Crowley said.

                “Yes,” said the angel. “Well, that was, nice. Thank you for suggesting it.”

                “Sure,” Crowley said. “Er.” He frowned at himself. Then, he decided that the only appropriate thing to do under the circumstances would be to get very tired. He yawned. “Well. Good night.”

                “Good night, my dear,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, glad that that was all cleared up. The demon flashed a smile and left to go to bed. Aziraphale returned to his book corner. He looked at the wall of books and frowned. He pushed a few stacks aside, so that it was more open—just enough that he wasn’t _completely_ separated from the rest of the flat—then he went inside and got back to work.


	6. Men in Dark Suits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Banks is wrong.

                “Aziraphale!” Crowley paced around the kitchen and glowered at the floor. “Aziraphale!”

                “Yes?” called back the irritatingly singsong voice, full of innocence.

                “You’ve done it again.”

                Crowley waited, barely resisting the urge to tap his foot, until the angel came into the room.

                “Done what?”

                “Gotten food all over the floor.” They had started eating more after the Ritz. It was mostly a good thing, as they had both discovered that eating put them in better moods even if they didn’t naturally feel hunger. They had started to try cooking, too. This had mixed results.

                Aziraphale looked at the dried noodles and spices that covered the ground. “Technically, it’s not food, but only the ingredients. I wouldn’t waste food that’s already been made.”

                “If you let ingredients go to waste,” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth, “you will have less made food _also_.”

                Aziraphale rubbed his head. “Oh. Yes.”

                Crowley scoffed. “Why are you so fastidious in some respects, and such a slob in others?”

                “I’m not the slob,” Aziraphale retorted. “At least I don’t lounge around all day in nothing but a shirt!*”

*Crowley absolutely wore trousers as well, but to Aziraphale, whose head was stuck in the days in which no one ever showed their elbows, wearing a T-shirt was like wearing one’s undergarments.

                Crowley rolled his eyes and tried not to let his face go red. “I put on a collared shirt when I go out anywhere,” he mumbled. “At least I change clothes so my outfit isn’t covered in layers of dust.” He stepped on a noodle and frowned again. “I almost slipped and fell from stepping on your mess the other day. I could’ve broken my neck.”

                “I could have fixed that,” Aziraphale tutted.

                “I’d rather not have it happen in the first place, thanks.”

                “I don’t see what you’re complaining about. You’re the one who always drags plants in here, getting dirt everywhere.”

                “Dirt is perfectly sanitary!”

                Aziraphale’s brain ran through every dictionary definition of the word “dirt” and its various international translations in indignation as he spluttered. Crowley cut him off before he could start.

                “It’s not that bad,” he said. “It’s not as disgusting as the kitchen after anytime you use it.”

                “Fine!” Aziraphale snapped. “Then next time I’ll clean!”

                “Fine!” Crowley said.

                “Fine!”

                “Thank you!” the demon said, and both of them stormed out of the room, which led them into the same room once more, so they stormed in opposite directions, Crowley heading down the hall, until they were finally apart.

 

                All that aside….

                ….It got kind of nice, having someone there.

                They usually had something to chat about. They knew each other so well that they could comfortably talk for a long time about simple things. On certain days, anyway. When they were in the right mood, when Crowley wasn’t shutting out the world, or when Aziraphale wasn’t absorbed in one of his books. And the angel had to admit, it was nice to have someone around with which he could share interesting finds. He’d used to read the best passages aloud out of sheer excitement, but there had been no one there to hear them, or his lengthy explanations about what made them so great. Crowley had been impatient with them at first, but didn’t seem to mind them anymore. And he found he didn’t have to explain them so much to the demon, either. Crowley understood what he liked about all of them. He knew him.

                And Crowley had to admit, it was nice having someone around for him to talk with, too. His short, unplanned conversations were more diverse. He talked about anything. A bird flying past the window. It was nice having someone to point these things out to. Having someone around to mention something to, just whenever a thought hit.

                And Crowley lived under a pretty constant onslaught of thoughts.

 

                Crowley woke up. His breathing was fast and shallow, his eyes were stretched wide. He pulled his arm out from under the covers and wiped his brow, which was cold and sweaty. He forced himself to breathe, in, out. In. Out.

                This happened every now and then.

                Some people, when waking up, immediately try to remember what their dreams were about. Crowley did some days, when they were about movies he had watched, or strange new discoveries his mind had made up about the farthest corners of the world that even he had never reached—deep in the oceans, or in the middle of rainforests.

                Tonight, he did not try to remember.

                He sat up and groaned, shutting his eyes and pressing his fists against them until he saw dots. Of course, he didn’t need to try. The problem was, he had too many memories in the first place—bad moments in Earth’s history, bad moments from Before….There were plenty of places in the dark recesses of his mind that his memory could search to find ways to torture him. He’d seen them all in dreams plenty of times before.

                Crowley took his hands away from his face and let his eyes readjust to the dark. Normally, when this happened, he would turn on all the lights in his flat and play whatever music was in the player, without actually hearing it. Then he would walk around through the well-lit rooms that somehow still seemed too dark, because he couldn’t sit still, alone in an empty house, or his brain would start thinking again. And he would be fine. He would be exhausted and completely miserable for a little while, but eventually morning would come, and he would be fine.

                Crowley got out of bed and stood by his end table. He would be fine now, too. He could do that here, in his bedroom. He was always fine. Miserable, but fine.

                For once, instead of his whole flat being dark, light shone through the crack under his door.

                Crowley stared at it, then made a decision. He marched over to the door and grabbed the handle.

                But then he let go and marched back over to his bed.

                “Should I change?” he mumbled. The thought alone of putting on actual clothes took too much energy. But Aziraphale would be out there….

                It wasn’t like he slept in the nude. He marched over to the door again, then stopped again.

                The incident with the stereo had not been the only time Aziraphale had woken him up. There had been the time with the smoke alarm from the burnt crumpets, and the several occasions in which Aziraphale had tried to have a conversation with him through his door because he had ‘forgotten’ what time it was. Crowley had thrown on clothes the first few times, and had started simply yelling without leaving his bed since then.

                They had in fact seen each other naked, long ago. But no one had worn clothes in the very beginning, and they had been thousands of years younger then, not that their age showed all that much.

                Crowley had silk pajamas. He had them because he thought deep red silk pajamas were the appropriately lavish thing for the person he was trying to be to wear. He had discovered that they were, in fact, the most comfortable article of clothing in existence. This rarely happened when he chose clothes in order to keep up his image. He had been delighted.

                In the end, he settled on slipping on a (also silky) robe, and went down the hall.

                The past-midnight living room didn’t seem so surreal with the angel sitting on the couch, already wide awake.

                “Hello, dear,” he said, barely glancing up. “What would you like for breakf—?”

                Aziraphale did a double-take. He noted his robe, then looked out the window, which was pitch black. He turned back to Crowley questioningly.

                “Not quite time for breakfast yet,” the demon said. “Er. I didn’t feel like sleeping anymore.”

                “Right.” Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, then moved some books off of the sofa where he had been working on them. “Would you like to sit down?”

                Crowley did so. Aziraphale went back to reading. The only sounds were the turning of pages, and Aziraphale humming softly every now and then.

                Crowley sank further into the sofa.

                “You can watch some television, if you like,” Aziraphale said.

                “’S’allright,” Crowley said.

                They sat. Crowley’s vision was starting to blur. It was going dark, but he didn’t mind so much. If it bothered him, he could open his eyes, and the room would still be bright. Whenever he started to drift off, Aziraphale would move a little, and he would wake up. Eventually, he let himself close his eyes. He listened to Aziraphale flipping the pages of his books. The sounds of paper were very quiet, but somehow loud enough to block out everything else. They were the sounds of someone else being awake. Of being there, at least. Even if Crowley did fall asleep, he would still be there….

                Aziraphale started humming again.

                That was the last thing Crowley remembered.

 

                Crowley had gone out for a stroll. A nice little stroll down to Soho. The weather was very pleasant, and if he just happened to pass by Aziraphale’s old shop, that was only because it happened to be a pretty street. It he happened to check out how the building project run by the sneaky, slimy Mr. Banks was going, that was only out of curiosity on behalf of his old friend. And if he happened to confront one of the workers there and demand to be told where Mr. Banks was, that was only because Crowley had a lot of steam to let off from a long time of bottling up a millennium-formed habit of creating chaos, and Mr. Banks was a prick and Crowley was going to make him suffer.

                That was all.

                “Hmm,” said the demon, touching his index finger and thumb to his glasses. “Should I hypnotize you, or should I get you to tell me some other way?”

                “Look, pal,” the worker said. “I can’t tell you nothin’, so you might as well just be on your way.”

                “Let’ss sssee,” said Crowley, and he took off his glasses. He also stuck out his tongue—his real tongue—for good measure. Just because, these days, with contacts and cosmetics, people weren’t always so impressed by strange-looking eyes alone. He could always do a little extra if necessary. The construction worker, though, was apparently an old-fashioned man, and he quickly screamed and gave Crowley the assurance that he would provide him with all of his required information.

                 Mr. Banks was in fact on site. Crowley strolled into the angel’s old shop, which had been stripped bare, and walked over to him. The human was talking with another worker, but stopped at the sight of the demon. Recognizing him as a type he was used to working with,*

*A man wearing an expensive-looking suit and dark shades, not a demon, necessarily.

he brushed the other man aside and gave him a smile.

                “Hello,” he said. “How can I help you?”

                “Cut the crap,” said Crowley, who had always wanted to say that, but had always found it to be a bit too harsh for his other acquaintances. “I’m here on behalf of Mr. Fell. You’re going to tell me exactly how he ‘broke’ his contract, and then we’ll see what we can do about it. And by ‘do about it’, what I really mean is, we’ll see what I’m going to do to you. Get it?”

                Mr. Banks raised his eyebrows. “I see,” he said softly. He chuckled. Then he turned and started walking, gesturing for Crowley to follow. He did. “It really was such a pity,” Mr. Banks was saying as he led them further into the building. “A library would have done wonders for this area. Of course, a _proper_ shop will do even more. Not for the area, but for my pockets, you see.”

                Filling his pockets with maggots is a possibility, said the voice in the back of Crowley’s head, but he shushed it, knowing there would be better opportunities. He just had to wait for the right inspiration.

                “However.” Mr. Banks had reached a wall. He turned. “Mr. Fell sadly failed to inform us that there is an infestation of a hazardous species of mold in his—now, my—building.” He made a pouty face at Crowley. “It could have been very bad. Luckily, it’s just a small batch, so we should be able to get rid of it and move right on with the construction—still. Mr. Fell really should have warned us.” He stepped aside and gestured to the wall, where there was a small brown patch of mold. “Don’t you think?”

                Crowley glowered at him, but Mr. Banks laughed.

                “Oh, I’m not worried about you,” he said, walking around him. “You see, you have no legal action available to you at all. His failure to warn us broke the contract. And don’t think you’re going to intimidate me through any external means. I know your sort. All bark and no bite.”

                Crowley considered showing him exactly what shape he could make his teeth, but decided against it. He had formed another idea.

                “We’ll sssee,” he hissed, making Mr. Banks frown. But the man covered it up with another chuckle, and, waving his hand through the air, walked around Crowley and disappeared out the door.

                Crowley glared after him until he was gone. He waited a moment.

                Then he grinned, and turned back around.

                It was really a very small patch of mold. Crowley took off his glasses and leaned forward, inspecting it closely.

                “You’re halfway like a plant, aren’t you?” he said softly. “Listen up. I bet you’re new around here, right? I bet you didn’t even want to be here. You were taken away from your home and family by these people, right? They’re a nasty bunch….”

                He looked behind him to make doubly sure he was alone. When he turned back to the mold on the wall, his grin was even wider. “Well. Here’s how you’re going to get payback.”

 

                Aziraphale sat at a small table on which he had set up his computer, working on his taxes. He occasionally stirred his cup of coffee. Crowley stood by the window. He had been watering his plants, but had stopped and set the plant mister aside. He leaned against the windowsill, staring out pensively.

                Aziraphale tried to focus on his tax forms. He was not entirely sure what to do now that he was no longer a business owner. Certainly, he had done little enough business in the past for it to really make a difference, but he belonged to a different category of taxpayer now. There were laws to be followed, he was sure, and it was his duty to set a good example.

                “Hey angel…”

                Aziraphale frowned and tried to focus.

                “Would you say,” asked Crowley, “that each human’s true identity is really their soul?”

                Aziraphale took a slow, deep breath. He knew what was about to happen. He had grown to recognize it now. It was like there was a change in the atmosphere, something about Crowley’s contemplative tone that made it hang in the air like a thundercloud building up pressure. Any moment, it would explode, and Aziraphale knew, he just _knew_ , that he was about to be drawn into a conversation about the universe.

                He rubbed his temples. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I would say that.”

                Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale watched him from underneath his hand, waiting.

                “Sure,” Crowley said, still staring out the window. “But—“

                Aziraphale put down his hand.

                “Then,” Crowley said, “what are birds?”

                “Er.”

                “Or, say, fish? Insects? Mammals?” The demon’s words were speeding up. “Plants, even? Everything else, really.”

                Aziraphale hadn’t adjusted to this sort of thing right away. At first, when he had moved in, he had found Crowley’s—musings—difficult. Especially since they weren’t exactly planned. They would both be sitting quietly somewhere, Aziraphale feeling for all the world as though he were in his own space, alone and focused, and then Crowley would ask a question, and he would feel the thunderstorm building. He used to think, _Why, Crowley, why now?_

                He was trying to change that.

                “How do you mean?” Aziraphale asked politely. Because, hard as it was for him to transition between doing taxes or reading or working on something to talking, he had to admit…Crowley had some interesting points. In fact, it was almost always worth listening to, in the end. Always, in fact.

                “I mean—“ Crowley said. “What is every other living thing? Do they have souls? You’d think one of us would know about it if they did, wouldn’t you? But where do they go after they die? Unless there’s a whole plant heaven, a heaven for squirrels and ducks and platypuses, outfitted with platypus angels and demons and all, that I don’t know about. It raises a lot of questions, you’ve got to admit. Like, the whole story has always been that humans are the chosen ones, that they’re the favorites, and they look like us, or we look like them, either way. But is there the same story over in mosquito heaven? And if not, then, really, what is _life?_ Because if you can’t define it as a body that still has a soul in it, then what can you define it as?”

                He stopped. He had turned around and seen Aziraphale’s computer.

                “Er,” he said. “Sorry.”

                The last time he had asked Aziraphale a question while he was in the middle of something, the angel had snapped at him. Aziraphale realized with a pang of guilt that Crowley actually looked nervous. The poor thing obviously couldn’t help himself. Aziraphale turned his chair away from his computer and faced him.

                “That’s very interesting,” he said. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized, he meant it. His brow creased. “You know, I—I have no idea.”

                “Yeah. Weird, right?”

                Crowley was still looking at him as though he was asking if he should go on. He had half turned back to the window. Aziraphale stayed facing him.

                “Well, what do you think?”

                “Er. I don’t have to get into it.”

                “Oh, you might as well.” Aziraphale smiled. “You always come up with something clever. You know, I never have so many questions as when you’re around. But then, I suppose I never really have as many answers if you’re not around, either, do I?”

                Crowley hesitated, then smiled. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you my thoughts…and then you can tell me yours….”

 

                Eventually, a book did make its way into Crowley’s bedroom.

                A small stack of them did, in fact. Aziraphale kept recommending things to him. Crowley had been surprised at first. Maybe Aziraphale didn’t mind parting with his books as much now, since it was only the small distance of the next room away. Maybe it was another of his attempts at making up for taking up all of Crowley’s space with them—perhaps he was trying to get Crowley on the books’ side. Or maybe, Aziraphale had seen how Crowley had enjoyed sharing his favorite CDs and television shows with him, and had wanted to share something he enjoyed, too. At any rate, he had put so much effort into picking out which ones to lend him that Crowley would have called it ‘painstaking’, if he had not known for a fact that the angel had loved every minute of it. He had let Crowley borrow one book at first, then several more, and Crowley knew he had a list prepared, so that he would always have another one at the ready whenever he finished reading the last. Now the angel was there all the time, Crowley couldn’t exactly pretend that he was too busy to read, since his activities or lack thereof was common knowledge between them.

                And, wouldn’t you know it? Crowley actually liked them.

                It turned out the angel was pretty good at guessing what he would like, after all.


	7. 'If'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has some realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The voice in the back of Crowley’s head is the true hero of this story. He should have listened to it about the maggots.

                Crowley had a problem.

                It was a question of law versus justice. It concerned the complexity of moral philosophy, of the role of religion, politics, and love in human lives. It was a revolution and a sacrifice. It was the difficulty of expressing all this, exhibited through mere ink and paper. It was called ‘the brick’.

                It was an old copy of Victor Hugo’s _Les Misérables_ , and it was in his way.

                Crowley carefully picked up the aged volume, removing it from its place on the table near the window. Aziraphale was in the kitchen checking on the tea. He could be called back by the slightest sound. Crowley looked around for the perfect place.

                He dumped the book on a pillow on the floor that the angel had knocked off of the sofa.

                In its place by the window, he set a pot, out of which bloomed a beautiful, verdant green plant, with long stalks and soft bushy leaves that glowed in the sunlight. Crowley crossed his arms and smiled, nodding in contentment.

                “Erherm.”

                The demon felt a chill. He slowly turned around.

                “Ah,” he said nervously, “Aziraphale! Is—is that tea? I was just thinking of—“

                “I’m quite certain that wasn’t there a moment ago,” the angel said, gesturing with his head at the plant.

                “This? What, this old thing has been here for ages!”

                “No.” Aziraphale set down his tea—Crowley was amazed at his ability to find space—and walked over. “I quite remember setting one of my editions of _Les Misérables_ there. That plant used to be over in that corner.”

                “Oh, yes.” Crowley walked dramatically over to the corner. “Let’s see what’s here now, shall we? Oh look! It’s a stack of eighteenth-century newspapers! Seriously, why do you even have these, angel?”

                “Now, where did you put that book…” Aziraphale spotted it and gasped. “Crowley! Really? On the floor?”

                “Not on the floor. On a pillow.” Crowley walked back over and shrugged. “It’s on a cushion, angel, what more can you ask for?”

                “I could _ask_ for you to kindly stop moving things around every few minutes.”

                “Well, you moved them first! I don’t like other people moving my things, Aziraphale.”

                “It’s not exactly the same, though, is it, because you can much more easily find a misplaced plant four times the size of your head than you can find a specific edition of a very significant piece of literary history—“

                “And the sunbeams can just bounce off all the walls until _they_ find the plants you’ve moved, can they?”

                “Technically,” Aziraphale said, sniffing, “that is how light works, yes. I told you, if you wanted more space on the tables, I would be happy to bring some proper shelves in—“

                “Oh no, I am not having shelves in my flat. It’ll completely ruin the—“

                “—don’t say ‘aesthetic’—“

                “—aesthetic, and don’t say ‘if you would just—“

                “If you would just let me _help_ —“

                “—let me help’, because then you’ll have to move all of my things ‘for me’ again—“

                “I would ask you where you would like them,” Aziraphale exclaimed.

                “Then we’d just be in the same old boat, wouldn’t we?”

                “But we’d have more surface area—“

                “I don’t _want_ surface area—“

                “Oh, bah!” cried Aziraphale, throwing up his arms and turning to go back to the kitchen.

                “Bah is right,” hissed Crowley, and he turned and stomped to his room.

 

                Aziraphale was taking a walk, which, because of bittersweet nostalgia and a tinge of masochism, led him to the street of his old shop.

                It had been a good few decades. He’d made a net loss by selling a few books, and buying a multitude more, and this was precisely how success in business should be measured, in his opinion. He reached the point in the street where he had used to live, looked at the old building, and sighed.

                Then he frowned. Then his eyes widened, and then he gave a quiet giggle, and a little jump of excitement. Then he raced across the street to reaffirm what he thought he had seen.

                “They’re shutting it down?” the angel said, breathlessly, to his old neighbor, who was also looking at the sign that had been posted out front. “They’re closing the building project?”

                “That’s right,” said the woman. “It’s been shut down indefinitely. Oh, hello. Didn’t you know? I assumed they would have told you.”

                “We don’t exactly keep in touch.” Aziraphale beamed at the sign. Then, he forced himself to calm down. He regained his composure and turned to his neighbor politely. “Do you know what happened?”

                “Mold,” said the woman cheerfully. “Apparently it’s become in _fest_ ed with mold! They thought they could get rid of it, but they can’t. Yet, somehow, it hasn’t reached any of the other buildings around. _My_ shop is completely safe!”

                Aziraphale stared at his old shop and gave a contented sigh. “Well. Isn’t that something? It just goes to show, how you treat people really matters. The good are rewarded, and—well—vice versa.”

                The neighbor seemed to have disliked Mr. Banks and his plans, too, as she didn’t ask him to explain his meaning. “It really is a wonder. I even snuck in to see it, myself.”

                “Er.” Sneaking in to see mold was appreciating the natural order of the world and taking an interest in the triumph of good over evil a bit more than Aziraphale had been expecting. “Really? Why?”

                “It’s famous, isn’t it?” she said brightly. “Well, a bit of a local celebrity, anyway. Word’s passed around, everyone knows. The way the mold grew in some places, it almost looks like curse words.”

                The woman sighed appreciatively and stared at the building. Aziraphale looked at her for a moment, then turned to stare at it, too. “Hm,” he said, in the mildly surprised tone of one who is not surprised at all. “I wonder who could have taught them to it.”

 

                Crowley was out when Aziraphale returned, so he took the opportunity to tidy up a bit. He left Crowley’s plants alone, but moved as many of his books as he could off of the sofa, and wherever they had to be on the tables, he stacked them neatly. It was the opposite of what his idea of tidying up had been for ages. It made it much easier to find things, he realized, and for once this was a benefit.

                Crowley came in carrying groceries. Aziraphale hurried to help him put them away.

                “Er, thanks,” Crowley said, following him into the kitchen.

                “You’re welcome. Crowley, I wanted to apologize.” The angel finished putting up the groceries and turned to him. “For taking up so much room, and moving your things around. And then arguing with _you_ because you try to move them back.” He laughed at himself and shook his head. “Even when I’m the guest.”

                “What?” said Crowley, who had practically forgotten. “Oh. Right.”

                “You’ve been very generous, letting me stay this long.”

                “Well. You know.” Crowley shrugged. “It hasn’t been all that bad.”

                “It hasn’t, has it? I could never find the motivation to cook for myself when I was living alone.”

                Crowley leaned against the counter. “I know what you mean,” he said. “Sometimes I just…sleep for days….”

                “I’m sorry if I kept you from that.”

                “No,” Crowley said with a short laugh. “No, you—that’s not what I meant.”

                “I know it can be difficult, having someone else around all the time,” Aziraphale said. “I personally always need some time alone, once in a while—as I’m sure you know, there are times when I’m simply not a very social being, even if I’d like to be—it’s just how I am, I suppose.”

                “Oh,” Crowley said. “So, then, you’re like that—with everyone?”

                “Of course,” Aziraphale said.

                “No, right. Of course.”

                “What our main problem is—” Aziraphale mused, “—what it really is, is a lack of space. That’s the only issue we’ve really had, what with our stuff not fitting, and bumping into each other too much, and all that.” He stared at the ceiling. “What we really need,” he said casually, “is a bigger place…room for both my books, for your technological gadgets…for your plants. A nice greenhouse for you, too…maybe somewhere in the countryside….”

                Crowley stared. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. It was obvious.

                “Erm.” Aziraphale smiled. “You know, I know you just did all that shopping, but I’ve been craving curry all day. Shall we go out?”

                “Sure.”

                Crowley followed him in a daze to the car, where he almost forgot that he was the one who had to drive. Aziraphale chattered the whole way about an entirely different subject. At one point, he even turned on the radio. Crowley hadn’t caught his stammered excuse as to why. The whole way there, he was thinking about what the angel had said. A voice in the back of his head kept whispering, _He is saying that we should move to the countryside together._ The rational voice at the front of his head pointed and laughed scathingly at the voice in the back of his head, which was silenced.

                They reached the restaurant, and Aziraphale had to remind Crowley to get out of the car. He gave a nervous laugh, which made Crowley feel guilty, so he tried his best to act normal for the rest of the evening.

                “Isn’t it funny,” Aziraphale said, examining his utensils. “Forks. Erm. They almost always have four tongs. Sometimes three, but never five.”

                “About what you were saying earlier,” Crowley said. He had lasted half an hour.

                Aziraphale put down his fork. “Yes.”

                “You were saying…” Crowley loosened his tie. “That we should, erm. Get a big house? Uh, in the country?”

                “If we wanted to live together,” Aziraphale said. “A bigger place would be better. I meant.”

                “Right.” Crowley looked down. “’If’.”

                “If you wanted to, I mean.”

                Aziraphale’s voice had been very soft. Crowley looked up at him. The angel quickly looked away and started folding his napkin.

                “Of course,” he said, sounding perfectly casual, “it was only a suggestion. Just something I was thinking about, since not having enough space really has been our biggest problem.”

                “Right.”

                “And since I’ve been having such trouble finding anywhere to go. I’ve only been looking in the city, of course, since you suggested I stop looking on the Continent. I could look outside of London on my own, except I hadn’t wanted to be so far, that is, so far away from—er.”

                Crowley gestured toward his napkin. “You’ve made a swan.”

                Aziraphale looked down at it. “Funny. I didn’t know I could do that.”

                They made eye contact.

                Crowley broke it. He picked up his own fork. “There _are_ never five tongs,” he said, with a hysterical laugh. He gave a great sigh. “Ah—I wonder why.”

                “Oh, that would just be silly, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale said fretfully.

                “Yeah, I suppose, what with five tongs being more than necessary, plus it’d make it way too big for our mouths—“

                “I meant us living together.”

                “Oh.” Crowley dropped his fork. He stared at Aziraphale. “Did you mean that?”

                “No,” the angel said in a low voice. “Not really.”

                They met each other’s gaze for a long moment. Crowley shrugged.

                “Well, I guess it’s about been six thousand years.”

                “Six thousand years of what?”

                “Of us gradually living closer to each other,” the demon said, with a slight smirk.

                “I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “At one point we lived across the globe from each other. We started out closer together in the beginning.”

                “In the very beginning, you mean? Yes, but the world was smaller then, wasn’t it?”

                “Yes. I suppose it was.”

                “Plus,” Crowley said, quietly. “We weren’t _really_ closer, were we?”

                Their waiter appeared before Aziraphale could answer. Their food was set before them, steaming and sending up aromas that distracted them even from their nervous conversation. They were only human, after all—or rather, they were as close as they possibly could have been. They both realized how hungry they had become. They ate, because all important conversations need a break before a decision is reached, and they were realizing that they were, in fact, coming to a decision. After dinner, they went down the street to get dessert, and were nearly finished before one of them brought it up again. Aziraphale had been eying Crowley’s plate, which, as usual, had a little bit left over, although he had stopped eating and was sitting back, looking quite relaxed. Aziraphale stared at the bit of cake, twirling his fork in his hand, and wondered why the demon never finished. It was wasteful, he thought, and he was about to reach over the table and take it, knowing Crowley wouldn’t mind, until a thought struck him, and he froze. He always had a bit left over. Always.

                “Crowley.”

                “Hmm?”

                Aziraphale stared at him. “Er—“

                “Oh.” Crowley pushed his plate forwards. “Go ahead.”

                Aziraphale smiled. “No,” he said. “Not that. I was going to say, I’ve quite enjoyed spending more time with you.”

                Crowley raised his eyebrows. He gave a short laugh, leaned his elbows on the table and turned his head to the side. He might have pulled off a reaction of seeming insouciance if he hadn’t also said, with a tone of being genuinely touched that utterly betrayed him, “Gosh.”

                “Right,” Aziraphale said, biting his lip to keep from smiling too widely. He mumbled, “Well. I felt it needed to be said.”

                “Well, we could at least give it a shot,” Crowley said suddenly. Aziraphale nodded.

                “Yes! Exactly. We could try it out, and if we don’t get on well, we could always go our separate ways again. It’s not like it’d be set in stone.”

                “You said in the countryside?”

                “Houses in the country tend to be more spacious.”

                Crowley rubbed his chin. “I’ve always seen myself as more of a city person.”

                “But you love nature.” Aziraphale added, “But of course, we could go wherever you like.”

                “It can’t hurt to look around,” Crowley said. “After all, if I’m in the country _with_ you, it wouldn’t be so bad being away from the city—I could give you a ride whenever we need to go anywhere, I mean. I wouldn’t have to drive so far to pick you up.”

                “That would be nice.”

                “Or…” Crowley sounded amused. “I could teach you to drive, and you could get a car of your own.”

                “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

                Crowley sat back, looking pleased. The light from the candles on the table lit up his glasses. Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling.

                “All right,” he said. “We’ll, as you say, ‘give it a shot.’”

                “Sounds good. And, angel?”

                “Yes.”

                “Eat my bloody cake, all right?”

 

                Aziraphale and Crowley were watching a movie. At least, they had been. It had gotten rather late. The next time Crowley looked over at the other end of the couch, the angel had fallen asleep.

                Even immortal essences merely posing as physical lifeforms—even ethereal beings—even the most reading-obsessed, ‘one-more-chapter’ insomniacs, needed sleep sometimes.

                Aziraphale had gone without it for a very long time, and, no matter what he said, he had learned to sleep a while ago, and he did do it every now and then. Being able to shut yourself down for a bit was an extraordinarily novel and useful invention. People talked about sliced bread, but unconsciousness was the real wonder of the living world. Crowley had always said so, and he couldn’t help smiling as he watched the angel gently snore.

                Aziraphale’s head had lolled back, and his mouth was open slightly. His glasses were crooked and smashed against his cheek. In spite of the lack of elegance that falling asleep unexpectedly usually resulted in, his hands were rested neatly on his lap, and he looked almost as dignified as he did when they went anywhere public.

                Crowley stared at him in a kind of focused wonder. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen him sleeping before—at least not while they were sober. If he had, it had been long, long ago.

                He would have expected him to look different, somehow. The ever-prim-and-proper angel seemed to always be keeping up his appearance. He got a bit frazzled when he’d been doing nothing but reading or drinking tea for days, of course, but that didn’t usually result in him letting down his guard, which Crowley had always assumed would lead to some sort of revelation about the angel’s true nature.

                He looked—so _normal_. Crowley almost laughed at himself, wondering what he had expected. And yet, it was still strange seeing him like this. Maybe it wasn’t that he had expected Aziraphale to be different when he ‘let his guard down’. Maybe he just hadn’t expected him to do it so readily around himself. Even that seemed silly now. It wasn’t the ‘are you my enemy and am I safe around you’ kind of letting your guard down. It was the ‘you already know what you think of me and I don’t have to constantly be making an impression’ kind of letting your guard down. The ‘you already like me enough not to hate me if I drool on your sofa’ kind.

                Crowley turned off the television. He carefully slid the angel’s glasses off of his face, folded them, and set them on his lap. He got up and walked to the end of the room, then shot one more curious glance back at the angel. Then he switched off the lights and went to bed.


	8. Better

                Aziraphale arrived home*.

*He was still practicing calling the flat that. He still sometimes felt like he didn’t currently have one, like he was in a transitory state, and when he remembered that he was still looking for a place to live, but this time wouldn’t be moving there alone, his restless anxiety turned to excitement. He wondered if Crowley felt the same. He called the flat home for now, though, because he had a feeling it felt that way more because of who he was sharing it with than the actual location.

                He found Crowley lounging on the sofa listening to music that was playing over his top-notch sound system. Aziraphale'd had a long day and was rather tired, and the amazing thing was, he didn’t mind that Crowley was there. If he’d had a house all to himself, he would have secluded himself and curled up in a plush armchair with a book, not to be disturbed for hours. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t alone, here. There was no room for the armchair, but the couch was big enough. Aziraphale could feel perfectly relaxed. If anyone else had been there, he couldn’t have, but with Crowley it didn’t matter. That was what Aziraphale found to be the real marvel of it all.

                Crowley looked up as he entered, and he didn’t seem bothered to have his day interrupted, either. He even turned down his music.

                “Hello, angel,” he said. “How’s it going?”

                “All right,” Aziraphale said, walking over. Crowley moved his feet off the couch so he would have room to sit down. Aziraphale did so with a small smile. “I, er—I spoke with some real estate agents today.”

                Crowley gave a slight shudder, then an embarrassed laugh. “I still get on edge whenever you talk about that. I keep forgetting—“

                “Oh, if you’re having second thoughts—“ Aziraphale said, eyes wide, his heart faltering.

                “—no, let me finish. I keep _forgetting_. That you’re not just moving out on your own, I mean. Like the plan was at first.”

                “Oh. Right.” Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh. His heart was still beating irregularly from anxiety, but Crowley looked cheerful. “I keep doing the same thing,” the angel said. He thought that maybe Crowley’s smile meant he felt the same way when he remembered what their new plan was. That gave him the courage to go on. “Well, they told me about a few areas we could look at. There are some in the city that we haven’t seen while I was searching alone, since they would have been too big for one person. There was also, er, one that was really lovely. Crowley, this house was simply beautiful, and it had plenty of room for all my books, and all of your things, and you could easily have dozens of new plants there, or put in a whole greenhouse, or a garden—but….”

                “But?”

                “It’s in the South Downs.”

                Crowley didn’t say anything. Aziraphale continued on hurriedly.

                “And I know what you said about the countryside, and feeling like you’d prefer to be in the city, but it’s simply _gorgeous_ , Crowley. You have to at least see it. I know you would like it, and if you don’t, well, then we can just go on back to the city again. Even if we do move there, we could always travel around. It’s not like we don’t have plenty of time for it.”

                “Is that a jab at me for sitting around all day?” Crowley said suspiciously.

                “No. It was a reference to our immortality, my dear.” Aziraphale adjusted his glasses and gave him a look. “And you have to admit, our workloads have been lightened lately, yes?”

                Crowley ran a hand through his hair. He shifted in his seat as he thought about it. He lowered his glasses to look at Aziraphale. The angel gave what he hoped was a winning smile.

                “Oh, all right,” Crowley said finally. “I suppose it can’t hurt to look.”

                “You won’t regret it,” Aziraphale said, beaming. “We’ll go next week.”

                “Okay. But it’ll have to be pretty fantastic for me to want to leave London.”

                Aziraphale just smiled. Crowley turned the music back up, and both of them sat back and relaxed.

 

                There was only one more day until they would visit the South Downs. Aziraphale was practically shaking with anticipation. He had been spreading hints about how nice the countryside would be, leaving the television set on nature documentaries, or on programs about beaches, commenting on how stuffy the air in the city was, and how much traffic there was. Crowley had gone out to pick something up from the store. It was rush hour, and the angel was pleasantly convinced that he would return quite frustrated with the traffic, indeed.

                He was still a bundle of nerves, though. What if he didn’t like the cottage? What if he thought it was still too small? Cottage or not, it was still much bigger than any flat they could find. What if he thought it was too far away, or not his style? Style was one thing the two of them had never shared. Or, what if, when they got there, and were looking around, actually planning on moving in together, Crowley realized he was reconsidering the whole thing? What if he thought that maybe living together wouldn’t be such a good idea after all? What if Aziraphale started thinking the same thing?

                He didn’t think he would. They had done about all they could to annoy each other in the past weeks. Instead of getting worse, things had only gotten better. He was going to take that as a good sign.

                No, there was no use in thinking negatively now. He had done all the convincing he could for the meantime. For now, all he needed was something to soothe his nerves. A good book was exactly what was called for.

                He knew exactly what he wanted to read. He also knew exactly where it was, but when he got there, he saw that Crowley had placed another potted plant on top of it. He sighed and picked it up to move it.

                The pot was heavier than he had expected—much heavier. As he struggled under the unexpected weight, one of the leaves brushed against his nose, making him have to sneeze. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and screwed up his face, trying his best not to do so, and trying to put the plant back on the table, but he lost his balance and stumbled, and the next thing he knew, absolutely everything had fallen to the floor with a great crash.

                He waited a moment before opening his eyes.

                When he did, he put his hands to his face again.

                The pot had cracked, scattering dirt everywhere, the books were all over the floor, and the plant’s stem had broken, right at the base. Aziraphale groaned. How many times had Crowley told him not to move anything? He ran his hands down his face and grimaced at the ceiling.

                There was the sound of movement in the hallway. Aziraphale sprung into action, trying to clean up as much of the mess as he could, but there was no hope. He stared at the plant in dismay. He considered fixing it with a miracle, but something told him lying or trying to cover it up would not work out well. Instead, he froze, and waited for Crowley to open the door.

                He did, and as soon as he walked in, he saw the mess. His mouth dropped open, and he walked over quickly. Aziraphale was faster, though, and even though he still couldn’t move, he started speaking instantly.

                “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice agonized. “I’m so, so sorry. Oh, Crowley, I—why didn’t I listen to you? You told me a million times, and I—Oh, dear. I’ve killed your plant, and I’ve ruined everything. I am so, so sorry. Please believe me.”

                Crowley listened to him silently, looking down at the mess with his hands in his pockets. He nudged one of the shards of broken pot with his foot. Aziraphale fluttered around him, apologizing profusely, feeling more and more despondent as Crowley continued not to say anything.

                “I’m—“ The angel’s voice faltered. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to speak at all.

                “There’s dirt on your books,” Crowley said finally.

                “What? Oh. Yes.”

                Crowley finally looked up at him. Part of Aziraphale wished he would take his glasses off, and part of him considered them a mercy. He breathed in slowly.

                “I really am most dreadfully sorry,” he said.

                And then, the man started laughing.

 

                Because, Crowley had just realized, the angel actually cared more about upsetting him than those books. So he wasn’t actually all that mad. Not mad at all, really. Well, a little bit annoyed. The silly angel never would listen. He couldn’t help it.

                He couldn't stop grinning.

                Aziraphale was still staring at him. He had gone pale. “Why—?” he asked.

                Crowley was asking himself the same question. But he just snickered and shook his head. “Oh, you bloody angel.”

                “Is this—are you so furious that you’re laughing?” Aziraphale asked.

                “No, no. I—look. You owe me a new plant!”

                “Yes. Yes, definitely.”

                Crowley laughed again. “What do you think I’m going to do, angel? Throw a hissy fit? Erm. I’m not _that_ bad.”

                “Well, do you—“ Aziraphale gulped. “Do you still want to—tomorrow, I mean—“

                “Look at the place in the South Downs? I think we’d better. You were clearly right about us needing more room.”

                Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. He had to sit on the couch just to keep from collapsing. Crowley ended up looking more worried about him than the angel had been moments before.

                “Are you sure you’re all right? This isn’t about your books getting dirty, is it?”

                “No,” Aziraphale assured him vehemently. “No, it absolutely is not.”

                “Well,” Crowley said, his brow creasing. “I’m going to make you some tea anyway. You look like you’re about to faint. And drink it this time, all right?”

                “All right. And, Crowley?”

                “Yes.”

                “Don’t worry. I am perfectly aware that I owe you an entire greenhouse.”

 

                On the way to the South Downs, Crowley kept thinking to himself, _I am not a country person. I am not a cottage person. I am a city person._ He repeated this to himself, because he felt he had worked hard to make himself the person he was. All through the drive there, though, as soon as he had truly left the city, another thought kept creeping in. The further out they got, the less it crept, and the more it danced around in his brain, and that was that he was in Paradise again.

                The open sky—you could see so much of it out here—was bright blue, and beneath it everything was a shade of green. The sun gleamed off the Bentley as it rolled over the hills. Crowley could practically hear it purring, it was so happy to be out on the road. Crowley drove out to the country every now and then, but it was always on some business or another. There was nothing quite like driving out just to take in the sights. He’d always assumed that he had plenty of fresh air, since he never got sick, and he had plants in his flat. He’d forgotten that it actually _smelled_ different. Aziraphale had convinced him to bring one of his struggling flowering plants, somewhat awkwardly named ‘Archangel Angelonia’. The pot sat between the two of them, the little leaves shivering in the breeze. The stems seemed to have reached up toward the sunlight and grown several centimeters just in the time they had been driving so far. A few purple flowers had even opened up, with little yellow centers, which swayed happily. Every time he glanced down at it, there were more.

                Crowley found himself wondering why he didn’t come out here more often. He wondered what else he’d been uselessly denying himself all these years.

                He glanced over at the angel, who was turning on the Blaupunkt.

                “You’re not going to like it. It’s _not_ Beethoven.”

                “Hmm.” Aziraphale sat back and gazed out the window with a contented expression. “I don’t know. Your music has been growing on me.”

                Crowley grinned and turned up the volume.

                They arrived at the cottage, which was, indeed, bigger than Crowley’s flat. A friendly woman appeared to show them around. She showed off the garden, then took them through all the rooms. Each one had an entirely different look. Aziraphale found himself imagining where all their things would go. There was one room where he could put his older, more valuable volumes, where they would be safe. There was another that was full of windows, with walls practically made out of glass, where Crowley would be perfectly free to cover every surface in plants. The kitchen was much larger, and Aziraphale was already promising to himself that he would try not to make such a mess. Then, there was one room where they could have it all; a sofa and his armchair in the middle, with the television and speakers, as well as plants by the large window, and there would still be plenty of room for some books around the walls. Crowley had admitted himself that bookshelves would fit right in with the aesthetic of the place. Aziraphale tried to stop himself from envisioning it, in case he was getting his hopes up prematurely, but it was difficult not to see it all already.

                While Aziraphale was talking with the agent about the nearest village, Crowley wandered outside to stroll through the garden. There were already several flowering bushes with bees buzzing happily around. He could imagine just where he’d add to it, with some bright green ferns in the back, and then some more flowering plants towards the front—

                He was getting ahead of himself. He had to admit, though, it was very nice. They’d seen so many flats over the past few weeks that were crumbling apart that he had forgotten that a nice place to live didn’t have to just mean somewhere that was structurally sound, but also someplace gorgeous.

                The city wasn’t so far, really. He was immortal, and had all the time in the world for traveling there if he wanted. The long night drives to and from the city, out to the countryside, with no one else on the streets…those would be great….and, really, it wasn’t such a bad place to come home to….

                “There you are.” Aziraphale was walking toward him. He was smiling, but his brow was furrowed. Crowley couldn’t tell if it was from the sunlight or because he was worried. “What do you think?”

                Crowley stared into the distance. It was all just green. He could almost smell the sea. “D’you really think this is a good idea? Us living together?”

                Aziraphale’s face fell. “Uh. Er. Well, I—“

                “Because I do.” Crowley scratched his head. “I just, er, wanted to make sure you’ve really thought about it. I mean, I do tend to whistle a lot, at random times, you know. It can get a bit annoying.”

                “I’ve noticed,” Aziraphale said. “I tend to hum, myself.”

                “Oh, yeah. I’ve noticed that too.”

                The two of them looked out over the countryside. It was a nice day.

                “All right, then,” Crowley said.

                “Yes?”

                “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

                Aziraphale beamed. Crowley had to bite his lip to keep from doing the same. They went to tell the agent.

 

                They were moved in a week later. They were still moving things around, but they had already put in Crowley’s television and plants, Aziraphale’s furniture that had been in storage, and more shelves than had ever been put in a house that size. Crowley joked that by the time they were through, they were going to have only as much space to move around in as his old flat. The floor wouldn’t be covered in books, though, there would be no book walls, and books and half-full teacups would only cover three-quarters of the surfaces. He may have been right, but it somehow still didn’t feel too crowded.

                They both had their own rooms now, so each of them could have some privacy whenever they wanted. And living so far away from everything, Crowley had plenty of opportunity to take the Bentley wherever he wanted, and to be free on the open road.

                The location of Aziraphale’s old bookshop had finally been sold, at an amazing bargain, to a daring entrepreneur who was planning on opening a store selling old records and vintage music equipment. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were unhappy with that. The mold infestation miraculously cleared up the very day the contract was signed.

                The mold, however, seemed to follow Mr. Banks wherever he went. Anytime he tried to build at a new location, it had to be shut down due to the infestation. The mold didn’t quite understand how it traveled to each new territory, but its family was flourishing better than it had in generations, so it was happy.

                Aziraphale and Crowley both had their own rooms, but they spent most of their time in the main one, anyway. The window made the whole room bright, and on nice days, which were most of them, it let in the sound of birdsong. Crowley had also already found a pond with ducks in it, just a few minutes away.

                He’d already taken nighttime rides out with the Bentley. He could see so many stars here. He could go towards the city, sparkling in the distance, or he could go the other way, and drive for as long as he wanted, completely free in the world.

                He was thinking about taking Aziraphale next time. It wasn’t like he would be sleeping, anyway. He knew the angel didn’t always like how fast he drove, but that was just when other people were around. Maybe if it was just the two of them on the road, he’d understand some of what he felt, that sense of freedom.

                He’d thought he’d do it to get away from everyone, and to be alone, and when he’d first considered bringing the angel along, he’d surprised himself. But for some reason, even though the appealing part of it had always been that it would just be him, out in the night, away from it all…it didn’t really feel like Aziraphale would get in the way of that. Not at all.

                He might, even, make it better.


End file.
